Bread and Circuses
by LSDandKizuki
Summary: The rebellion of Katniss Everdeen brought Panem down, and the remnants of America back. But after a century of isolation, the rest of the world is not as it used to be. Those nations who have not died or been changed beyond recognition cling to forgotten pasts, trying to survive in a world which wants them gone.
1. On the Other Side of the World

CHAPTER ONE – _On the other side of the world_

 _April, 2232_

The trees were starting to fall. First they dried up, from the top branches spreading down to the roots, then they went hollow as their insides rotted, and finally they creaked and toppled. Into streets, into back gardens, into lakes. It occurred every few years, while new trees would attempt to grow and thrive, only to fail in the cruel, dry London air.

The sight was depressing, an ugly reminder of the outside world, a sign to stay at home and try to forget one's troubles. Unfortunately, some people had a duty to uphold.

 _It's only one day of the year,_ England told himself, _one sodding day when I have to go outside and meet people._ In short, one World Meeting every year.

The streets were in disarray. Some cars had been turned over, the cobbles around them glittering with broken glass. He heard a soft squelching underfoot, and looked down in disgust: a patch of blood sat congealing on the pavement, not washed into the drain. England looked up at the sky, squinting at the painful sunlight glare. It was bright, dry, but bitingly cold, with a searing and ceaseless wind. _Never thought I'd wish for rain._ It was five in the morning; any leftovers from the fighting last night had yet to be tidied up.

There was a time when England might have taken a certain wistful pleasure out of walking the streets of London before the city was awake, but that time was past. Right now all England was thinking, as he made his way to the port was _why does it have to be in bloody Australia?_

England's personal hovercraft was waiting for him. It was a modest thing, cramped, unfashionable and uncomfortable, but at least it was something. The journey would be long and boring, and it was too early for any of the newsagents to be open yet, so no Sudoku either. England sighed and wished for the day to be over as quickly as possible.

 _Ah well,_ he thought, ever the optimist, _at least the climate's nice._

Australia and New Zealand were both lucky, as far as he was concerned. The worldwide Depression was doing no nations any favours, and they were no exception, but still… They didn't have to work until they were numb just to keep every mouth fed. They didn't walk through riot-wracked streets every other week. Even global warming had been kind to them. As far as England could see, all it had done was make a lovely climate, well, _lovelier._ He thought of the creaking of falling trees in his own country and gritted his teeth.

It was because they lived so far away, blissfully untouched by conflict. _Loneliness has its perks._

England stepped out of the hovercraft, and was greeted by a face full of enthusiasm so bright and a smile so wide he was taken aback.

"England! So glad you could make it, mate!" England smiled weakly in response, and shook Australia's hand.

"Good to see you well, Australia."

Australia laughed, and patted England on the back, asked him how he was, suggested a game of cricket some time. Then she directed England to the building only seven meters away, where the meeting was being held. The corridors were grey-carpeted, peppered with direction-signs for the meeting and the murmur of quiet discussion from other rooms. The situation was unexciting, boring, and normal. For a moment, England forgot his problems and smiled. There was still some sanity left in the world.

There were already some nations inside. France sat near the head of the table, Baltica and Poland were conversing a little, and Japan sat beside them, quiet and ruminating. England tensed up instinctively, before slumping into the chair next to France, who raised heavy-lidded eyes to him.

"Angleterre... How are you, my friend?" The utterly familiar voice set England's mind at ease a little. This was a man he could properly talk to. Whether it was discussing immigration or fighting over territory, there always seemed to be common ground between them.

England gave a small grimace. "Better than most, economically. At least that's what I'm telling myself. You?"

France let out a huff. "Swimming in debt. And I spent all last week reading transcripts for the rioters' cases." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "After the seventieth, the words on the pages stopped making sense." England gave an appropriately sympathetic laugh, and then caught himself.

 _Try. Make it how it used to be. You know what to do._

"In debt and illiterate. Anything _new_ to report, France?"

"You. How _dare_ you! It's too early in the morning for this kind of disrespect!"

All it had taken was a little insult. A glint had appeared in France's eye, and his posture became more confident.

England leaned back in his chair a little, relaxed and somewhat pleased with his ability to lift the mood. "A riot happened last night, at my place. The air stank of blood this morning. Not one person awake in London. Not the first time it's happened. I'm not even sure I care anymore."

France smiled lightly. He no longer kept himself the way he used to, England noticed. Maybe it was due to the jetlag, but France hadn't bothered to make himself up or do his hair that day. There were bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. "That's a fine attitude. We should take our imminent deaths with dignity, right?" England winced, but the comment held no threat. It was a fact. They were fading, slowly and painlessly, but fading nonetheless. The way England saw it, the best they could do was stay as true to themselves as possible. He would always be the pessimistic and cynical one. France would always be the more light-hearted and soft-hearted one. How else could they go on?

England nodded. "We've been here a while," he admitted. "At least when our time's up, we will still be ourselves. Not horribly changed like… Some others…" _Torro. Muscovites. Wei Yao. Panem._

France snorted. "Who says they were horribly changed?" he asked. There it was. France's blasé attitude towards absolutely everything remained intact.

England wanted to get angry with France for it. He wanted to punch him like he would have done a century ago, for hiding from the truth in such ways, for refusing to deal with his feelings. Both of them were only barely able to stand it, perhaps France even less than him, no matter how flippantly they commented on the situation. Had England the energy, he would have taken the initiative to call France out on it, to discuss the problems properly, but he was too tired. Shouting and violence took effort that England could not spare.

"Alright, everybody..." Australia walked into the room, accompanied by Edelheim with Italy. Several other Europeans – Switzerland, Belgium, a couple of Nordics – followed. India was last in, and she took one of the many empty seats reserved for the Asian nations. She explained, quietly, that Pakistan was suffering a plague right now and wouldn't be coming.

No one asked where the others were. Australia began the meeting.

"First, I'd just like to say how wonderful it is to have all… most of us here at my place. We can't solve our economic issues by ourselves, you know. It's only by working together that we can solve the World's Problems."

Good Lord. England covered a snigger with a snort of breath. A few laughs echoed around the room. Edelheim put his head in his hands.

"Ja," he muttered, "That seems like a joke now, doesn't it?" It did, particularly with the way Australia said it, like there was a virtual trademark sign at the end of it.

Australia looked around indignantly for a moment, before speaking again. "Well, since I actually don't have much to complain about... Is there anything anyone has to say?"

Everyone had something to say. Everyone had problems that they wished to share with everybody, be it economy, the environment, or just about any other nation who was annoying them slightly.

"You've all borrowed some amount from me lately, and none of you have paid me back. I'm going to ask politely one more time that those who owe me pay up. I have barely enough to feed myself."

"That's total bull. None of you know real hunger! None of you!"

"Baltica keeps looking at me funny. He's plotting something, I know he is."

When had a World Meeting ended in any other way? The arguments were as archaic as the land itself, and in times as troubled as the twenty third century, they felt more like sources of comfort than real issues. Starvation and global warming were terrifying, unbearable, so to complain about such things with the same levity that one might complain about an untidy neighbourhood felt like a release of tension. The illusion of relaxation became so strong that a few would forget where they were.

"And I tell you, Spain _should_ be a part of the G8!"

"The G8 doesn't exist anymore, France. And neither does Spain."

"Oh. Of course."

Some time into the discussion, Japan raised his head. He kept his mouth shut during impolite argument, and would open it at just the right moment, to stir up whatever emotion he felt. Manipulation was his tool. Not, thought England smugly, that _he_ had ever been susceptible to it. He eyed Japan curiously. What controversial statement would come out of his mouth today?

"I thought it would be important to note," he said, quietly, his dark eyes meeting England's, "That Panem is having the same amount, if not more troubles that we are having right now. He is currently dealing with an uprising."

 _Oh, damn. Of all the bloody things to say..!_

At the mention of Panem, the room fell silent and the illusion shattered. It was only Poland who eventually spoke in response.

"Oh, really? Well, that's hardly surprising, I mean, I would _definitely_ rebel if all my kids were being forced to kill each other."

Baltica and some other European nations tittered at that. England looked down at his lap, refusing to meet anyone's eye. _Fucking Japan._ He dearly hoped that the next argument did not feature Panem as the subject. However, Poland did not seem finished.

"But really, Panem is not the big problem. I have been trying to say this for a while now." Poland's half lidded green eyes became wide and excited. "My boss was hanging around that huge wide space where the Muscovites lives and he heard some pretty interesting stuff to do with them."

They just _had_ to start talking about the wayward nations, didn't they? As if England's day wasn't depressing enough.

"He said that Muscovites is forming _armies._ He said that he's planning to become a super-power again." Poland sat back in his chair. "Cool or what?" Forget France's nonchalance. Poland could watch the world burn to a crisp, whistle and compare it to a scene in a video game.

There was a long silence. Eventually Baltica said, in his hybrid accent of Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian – "How – how can you say that? And how come you didn't tell me this before?" Poland raised his arms up in apology.

"I swear, I was going to, but it sort of slipped my mind! And come on, they're all anarchists, it's not as if they'll just attack –"

 _Knock._

All eyes turned to the door. "Come in?" Australia called uncertainly. The knock hadn't sounded like a human fist, though, it had sounded like metal. Like something metal hitting the wood…

The door creaked open, and England's blood ran cold. A dark figure stood there, hovering in the doorway, with a long iron pipe in one hand. The hair fell in thin, silver tangles, the clothes were tattered, and red scars stood out on the face. He stood with a slump, his free hand leaning against the door for support, and, when he looked up to face them, he beamed benignly.

The Muscovites drifted into the room and surveyed it. The nations, despite themselves, flinched. The observation burst through the rising panic in England's mind: _Even when he is reduced to a heap of anarchists, his very being radiates fear and power._ Muscovites noticed Australia among everyone who stood – her perfect blush blanched slightly now – and nodded, politely. He recognised his hostess. The room remained completely silent, everyone too shocked even to move their feet, as what used to be the great Soviet Union advanced upon them all. A part of them – a truly wistful part – assured themselves that this was a World Meeting – Muscovites could not harm them here...

"I knew you would be here. I noticed Poland leaving with Baltica, so I figured that the best place for a World Meeting would be here. So calm, so free of damage."

Not a word was uttered in response. England set his jaw and kept his eyes lowered. He would not be frightened by anything or anyone. Muscovites continued.

"I apologise for my lateness. No one bothered to inform me about the meeting. I had remarkable timing though, didn't I?" A small giggle, slightly cracked and frail. Miles away from the menacing chuckles Russia might have used to intimidate his fellow countries at another World Meeting. "I would have preferred you not to hear my little secret from Poland. I was not afraid of being confronted by you about it myself. I don't believe we should be fighting at all, to be honest."

Muscovites' grey and dark hands slowly lifted the faucet in front of him, so that even England and France reeled back in their chairs quite a bit, and Switzerland, perhaps out of pure habit, raised his hands in front of him in defence. "I believe in unity among the nations," Muscovites went on, softly. "So…"

Through the mind-numbing dread, England's thoughts went into contempt. _Oh, no, not this cliché._ He closed his eyes and relaxed his jaw, braced himself for it –

" _Become one, da?"_

Several miles away, the last tree in London crashed to the ground. England felt it like a pain in his ribs.


	2. Of Friendships and Alliances

CHAPTER TWO – _Of Friendships and Alliances_

Almost immediately, Japan rose from his seat, strode to Muscovites and bowed. " _Hai,_ " he said, "May the Muscovite Empire prosper." The Muscovites took Japan's hand and shook it, looking into his eyes with earnest joy.

"Thank you. Thank you so much! You should all be like Japan. Who here is like Japan and wants to see the Muscovite Empire prosper?"

England's tongue seemed to be made of lead. He was rendered dumb by the bizarre horrors unfolding before them. The dominant, condescending voice in his head was chiding him, _of course Japan would be the first to join the offensive,_ but on some level, he felt the betrayal keenly. There was a part of him that still felt a flush of comforting warmth whenever he caught sight of Japan gazing serenely into the distance, and that part now cried out in outrage. The other nations in the room also stayed silent, and Muscovites' face began to fall. He bit his meaty bottom lip, causing the pigment to drain out of it. "No one? That's sad."

Australia fell to her knees. "I surrender," she gasped. England furrowed his brow, his lip curling. _You damned traitor. You were willing to fight Russia when Japan was on our side in the Religion Wars, weren't you?_ The disgust prompted his tongue; he knew exactly what his answer to the Muscovites was.

"I _don't,"_ he said, "You piece of anarchist shit."

And just like that, war was declared. It was not, England thought sadly, the first World Meeting to result in such circumstances.

 _June, 2232_

"He gave you Hell, didn't he?" There was shuffling and furniture squeaking and French cursing behind England's back. He heard France come hobbling up behind him before he smelt him, and he smelt the blood before he saw him, wine-sweet on France. He felt a rough hand brush his shoulder. Relief swamped him.

"Oui, Angleterre. Il est... Il est devenu un monstre. Trop horrible..." France's voice was thick, thick with something that England was not sure enough of to call tears. He sounded, as far as England could tell, more than merely physically defeated. A shot of panic sizzled through him; if France had had some kind of breakdown… _It's my fault,_ a shrill voice rang out inside England's head, though he tried to ignore it, _I let him go. It's my fault..._

From the moment that the Muscovites asked to become one – from the moment that he asked _anything_ , England had been sure that he would fight until he received the appropriate answer. It would have been easier if everyone had banded together in that moment, been able to crush the rising conflict that came from East Europe. It would have been so much easier to bear the situation if Japan had not immediately sided with the attacker, and, of course, if Australia had not backed down as soon as she fell under threat. England ground his teeth in irritation. Now the whole problem rested on the shoulders of Europe and therefore, by default, on the shoulders of France and England.

"This will not work," England muttered. He wasn't sure if France could hear him or not. The hand had been withdrawn. "It is simply Europe pitted against Asia. Japan has a lot of resources, and now those are available to the Muscovites. Iraq's not going to help anyone out, and Muscovites knows better than to aggravate him. Half of Oceania has already surrendered. We are hopelessly outnumbered."

The plan to change this situation had failed. It went like this; France would entreat the remaining European nations to stand up and fight the combined power of Japan and the Muscovites, while England tried his luck in Asia. The talk with India had resulted in nothing but stirred up old bitterness:

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry, Britain. Japan's granted me amnesty if I stay out of the situation. I'm not going to go against him, not after Wei Yao. The guy is terrifying."

"More terrifying when you realise you trusted him mistakenly. Don't be a fool, India."

" _Fool?_ I'm in a better economic state than you, Britain. Watch your tone."

"You're a coward."

"No, I'm not. I'm not your colony anymore. I'm not obliged to fight for you."

England didn't bother going through the tedious and convoluted process of scheduling a meeting with Iraq. He didn't need to see him to know he wouldn't care if Muscovites flattened all of Western Europe. It would probably make him happier.

The Europeans who would fight were weak and few – France, England, Italy, Edelheim, Baltica and Poland. Italy and Edelheim were political messes, all sense of order and leadership thinned out by growing populations and depleting resources. Poland and Baltica had never been strong in battle, their combined military forces still a fraction of England's alone. They needed help desperately, so France sought it out by personally visiting each European state which hadn't publicised a stand. Naturally, first was Switzerland, who declined immediately.

"I will not fight for other people," he had said, stoutly. "When the Muscovites attack, I will defend my country with all my might." It was an unsuccessful trip, but at least France had come out unscathed. He wished Switzerland luck and walked away.

France was a very smart person. No one could doubt that. Only he could have thought that if such a changed and ruined nation like Muscovites was able to come out in the open and speak to everyone else – then why couldn't another?

"I am going to contact Torro," he had said. England did not argue. It could not do any harm; if Torro was unwilling to side with them, then he definitely would not side with the Muscovites. France left the building, and England did not hear from him for a week.

He told himself not to worry, that France was a keen negotiator, he could still be with Torro, convincing him. But then England received a telegram, sent from somewhere around where Belgium used to be:

ENGLAND PLAN FAILED STOP TORRO ATTACKED STOP GOT CHASED TO BELGIUM STOP

NEED HELP URGENTLY STOP

England wasted no time. In less than a day, France was returned to his country and the meeting house, bruised, scratched and disappointed. England interrogated, as he tended to his wounds.

"Why did he attack? Switzerland didn't feel the need."

France winced. "He did not trust me. He immediately suspected – _A-Ow_! That we were planning to invade after winning him over. He declined the offer, called me a heathen... _'I would rather be trampled beneath the hooves of God than ally with the likes of you!'_ We forget the change – he is not who he used to be." He hissed as England pressed down on the mass of cotton wool covering a large gash on France's shoulder. _You mean,_ England did not say, You _forget the change._ He could see it in his mind's eye: France reaching his arms to Torro in supplication, his eyes widening in horror as Torro raised a sword, turning to run, but not fast enough before a flash of pain appeared in his shoulder, hearing the words " _Arrest the heathen!"_

"Give up on Torro. In fact, give up on Europe. They were all at the meeting, so they all saw the Muscovites. We can't do more than is possible." France looked at him, and England's stomach clenched as he saw that his eyes were red with tears.

"Non," he whispered. "I will go to him again. Torro is a vicious fighter, but I do not want to see him crushed by God. Surely you don't – you were familiar with him long ago, am I right?"

England's mind flashed to an image of a ruthless pirate, one who ruled the seas and ate the finest food – proudly showing off an Armada that would never see the light of day on England's shores. They had never been _allies,_ or if they had, they'd never been friends. Still…

"Yes," England said, getting up from his chair, and helping France to do likewise. "But I honestly can't say that I care about what happens to him now. And I give my strongest advice to _not_ return to him. I know that you two were friends, perhaps, in times gone by, but you aren't now. You have to remember that." There was a pause, after which England said quietly, "You want to save him."

France gave no response, but he turned his head away from England very quickly. England sighed, placing an awkward hand on France's back. "It's admirable. Really, it is. But… Sometimes, if they're this far gone… It's better for everyone if you forget about them." He winced, painfully aware of how harsh it sounded. But France needed to hear this.

"Will you try and stop me from going back?"

"I won't force you to stay. You are free to do as you wish, but don't expect me to bail you out again. You were warned this time."

The next day France was gone already, and England immediately regretted his words. This time he did not return for a month, but no telegram arrived.

He was back now. England glanced away from his work, to see the Frenchman asleep on the sofa. He was breathing through his nose, the air whistling on its way in. There were too many wounds on his body to count, and his hand trembled where it lay on his stomach. England felt an ache in his chest, and decided that when he was putting France back together again, he would not question what happened in that month. He turned his attention to what he was working on.

They still needed allies. France had been unsuccessful in finding any in Europe – and England was by no means letting him out to try again – so why not seek them elsewhere? Oceania was simply too far away, and Asia was already all on the Muscovites' side... But there were still the Americas.

It was risky. It went against everything that the two nations had discussed, and it was certainly the wrong time to do it – didn't Japan say that they were dealing with an uprising? – but it was necessary. England added the finishing touches to his letter.

 _Dear Panem –_

 _You are most likely unaware of all events taking place in the rest of the world. That is understandable, and I know it will be difficult for you to read this, but you must. The Muscovites have declared war on all who don't agree to become part of their empire, and Japan has sided with them. I, France and most of Europe are not enough. We need help._

 _You know how difficult it can be to deal with the Muscovites. He will most likely contact you himself. I don't know if he will invade you or not, but you can't simply stay out of this war forever. If you do decide to join, then I beseech that you ally with Europe. Not for my sake, yours, or old times' sake – but for the sake of the world. Please._

 _I have heard from Japan that you are dealing with rebellion right now. I understand if it is difficult for you to contact us immediately, but when you can, please respond, just this once. Fighting Japan and Asia will be difficult for all of us._

 _You heard me say this when I last saw you, before you shut yourself off from the rest of the world. Please come back to us, America._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – represented by England_

There came a light snore from behind England. He looked at the sofa, and gave a wry smile. France wanted to contact lost friends and throw himself into physical and emotional danger? Well, two can play at that game. England gave one last look at his ally, before draping a blanket over him and leaving the house to post his letter.


	3. Catching Fire

CHAPTER THREE _– Catching Fire_

 _Seventy six years since the Dark Days_

There was a pile of letters on the desk as large as the desk itself. All unchecked, and all from other districts. In front of the pile sat two more, marked "THROW AWAY" and "IMPORTANT". The size of the IMPORTANT pile was roughly a fifth of the THROW AWAY pile, even as every few minutes, letters were decanted in chunks off into a portable incinerator. A large majority were not even read through, but they all said essentially the same things: _We need more weapons to fend off Thirteen. What are you doing to stop this uprising? IF WE BURN YOU BURN WITH US._ Fire was catching, and Panem looked on at his leader, his face impassive.

It was a miracle that President Snow was able to keep up his well-groomed, refined disposition, what with all the trouble. He sat at his desk, efficiently sorting letters, his snake-like eyes narrowed in concentration. Tiredly, he raised a single hand to wipe some sweat off his brow, and shook his head in disappointment. "Things are worse than I thought," was all he said, not looking up from his work, and Panem could not be sure if the sentence was directed at him. One from Two. One from Eight. Two in a row from Three. The pile went on and on, and didn't seem to shrink in size at all. Panem smirked. Since the home address of President Snow had been made public through one of the rebel propos, the letterbox had fallen out of use. Now, there was simply a crate the size of a washing machine outside the front door, into which letter after letter fluttered and accumulated.

"Don't you have servants to do this for you?"

Snow's eyes glanced up at his nation. "My servants are busy fortifying the mansion."

Panem yawned slightly, and turned his attention away from his president, to the window. The land outside looked peaceful. How long would it be before the rebels reached the Capitol? Would the uprising be crushed like last time, or would the districts win? Did he care? His eyes slid back to Snow, who was about a quarter of the way through the largest pile. Panem ought to be on the side of the Capitol. He _was_ on the side of the Capitol. Nations obey their leaders – that was, as far as he had ever understood it, the rule. He helped the Capitol whenever he could and did nothing to betray them, especially since the dark days. But now, what with the rebels stirring up civil conflict, old urges were beginning to bloom inside Panem. He was feeling a yearning for something, though he could not be sure what. All he knew was that whenever he was watching Capitol broadcasts when they were hijacked by rebels, he felt a flutter of satisfaction, rather than anger. No, more than satisfaction: exhilaration.

You could tell which letters were from where, after staring at nothing but them for a while. Many came in brown envelopes, some stuck with a seal, some with tape and some with spit. All were printed on brown or white paper. A brown envelope, a white note, a black-edged letter, another brown envelope, a cream letter with elaborate gold edges, all to the throw away pile. At least Snow knew what he was doing.

 _Wait. A_ cream _letter? With gold designs?_ Panem looked back at Snow, already seven letters ahead, the fancy envelope sinking under sheet after sheet of paper. "Hey!" he cried. Snow briefly looked up, and clenched his fist around a grey envelope with a seal from District Two.

"What is it, Panem, do you realise how busy –"

"What's that cream letter? The fancy one? It's not from one of the districts." Snow checked in the throw away pile, and fished it with mechanical precision. The other letters stayed totally still.

"This one?" Panem nodded, eyes wide. Snow threw it unceremoniously back on the pile. "It's not important." Panem drew back at the tone, but couldn't help looking reproachful. Snow continued. "It was addressed to you," he said, turning away from the nation and continuing with his sorting, a frantic edge to his movements this time. "I only need letters that are addressed to me, and that are important. We are dealing with an uprising now. Whatever that letter was, it should not have even made it to my doorstep." Panem looked from pile to pile, eventually meeting the back of Snow's head, which was still turned away from him. He shrugged, tried to stave off the feeling of powerlessness, and that familiar longing.

"OK. Fair enough, I suppose. We've got a lot to worry about now." Snow nodded curtly.

"Indeed," he said, picking up the THROW AWAY pile and sweeping it into the incinerator. "Quite a lot."

 _December, 2232_

England's injuries were more frustrating than anything else. They were in all the uncomfortable places on the body not usually expecting injury: the armpits, the small of his back, the buttocks. They were partially healed, and smarted when exposed to pressure, which made sitting down far more of an ordeal than he would have liked. France was suffering just as badly; his face, like England's, seemed relatively unharmed, but he shifted in his seat continually. For the first part of the evening, they sat on either end of the table in the meeting house in silence, eating dinner and despairing. The dim light in the centre flickered and danced, darkness creeping in from all sides. France looked dully at a piece of meat that glowed orange in the candlelight, and England sipped a pint of beer as slowly and with as much self-restraint as he could manage.

England had called the meeting. He said that he had come up with something truly brilliant, something that could help them win the war. He was very proud of it, and, though he wouldn't admit it, smug. He decided to invite France to the meeting house and tell him over dinner, in the most casual of tones – purely to supply himself with a semblance of superiority to his ally. Old rivalries never really die out.

"So," France said, thickly, beginning to prod the meal in front of him. "Have you heard from Panem yet? Is that the brilliant thing?" England shook his head. The wound in his armpit itched, and he tensed his muscles in an attempt to drive the irritation away.

"We shouldn't have expected better. He's going through a difficult time at the moment, and you know that we aren't exactly on speaking terms right now." He tried at a smile and just about succeeded. Bringing up Panem would not bring down his evening, he decided. He directed his thoughts to his wonderful breakthrough, and the smile widened without him trying. France abruptly stood up, clenching his fists upon the table.

"This has gone on for long enough. He can't just separate himself from the rest of the World forever, not while all this is going on –"

"He did so in the First World War," England said, calmly. "And the Second. He joined both eventually. Perhaps the same will happen now." Though, since his recluse, Panem had not given a response to a single world affair, no matter how critical. England wondered if he should tell France now. _No,_ he thought. _Let him say something that it can relate to, so it makes more sense, looks better..._

France shook his head, and a few dirt flecks landed on the table. "Non, non, mon ami, you have been used. We can't possibly win this war without help. Europe is helpless on its own. You should have been more forceful with India."

England slowly rose from his chair as his face darkened. He slid away from the table brought himself close to France's face. He smelt, among other things, smoke on his ally's breath. "Do you doubt our strength? Our wit?" he whispered, not threateningly or menacingly, but challenging. France stayed stubborn.

"Oui. Yes, I do, England." Their eyes met, truly met, and England was surprised at the level of desperation and frustration he saw. He opened his mouth to retaliate, tell him that there was no place for doubt in a war like this, or call him a pushover. Only one thought – the thought that, even after all this time, England's messages to the Americas had gone unanswered – stopped him. Instead his lips curled into a smile. _Now. Now I can tell him._

"There is a way around that," he said. "We just need to become stronger ourselves. That is why I invited you here." He walked back to his side of the table and France sank into his chair. "I have developed some weaponry. The creation has been going on since the start of the war, but none of us were sure of its power or stability." France leaned a little forward in his seat, clasping his hands together and resting his chin upon them. "We are certain now. Only the finishing touches are necessary. The weapon will be ready for use by my country in two weeks. I tell you now to not only bring good news, but to warn you." France drew back into his chair a little, wary of the smile that still lingered on his ally's face.

"Warn me of what, my friend?" England's eyes flashed. He always had a weakness for the occasional display of theatrics.

"To be well out of the way, my friend. Whether you like it or not."

 _Glucose Volanticus._ England could not be prouder.

The name was originally homage to one of his close friends, but no one ever had to know that. Besides, it wasn't the name that mattered. It was the damage it could do. And, England was happy to say, _Glucose Volanticus_ was capable of a lot of damage – even more than the nuclear weapons that died out with Korea and Panem kept to himself.

It was some kind of mix between organic and nuclear substances, a combination of reactions. England was not sure of all the details – warfare was his forte, not science. The weapon was launched as a missile from long range and could be used in battle or on the country itself. It would sit for exactly thirteen seconds, not nearly enough for anyone to get away, but long enough to instil the right amount of panic before it detonated. The microscopic electronic sparks that it unleashed went on for hundreds of miles in all directions, causing anything flammable to combust. The initial explosion was enough to shake the ground as much as a level 5 earthquake. It was enough to devastate a nation for months. Possibly, England tried not to think about the Muscovites and the way he leant on his pipe, enough to wipe a weak one out completely. The weapon was perfect. The target was perfect. One order was all it needed... But, of course, that would be barbaric. _Not weapon,_ he decided. _Deterrent._

He told the Muscovites in person, in a cosy private meeting, all he could about _Glucose Volanticus._

"It could wipe out everything you know and love," he said. "Simply call off everything you have done and it won't. I sincerely hope that you choose to do this." There was a tiny sadistic part of England that lied as he said this. A part that hoped instead that the Muscovites _would_ continue his assault, just so England could watch such a great former power grovel at his feet.

Muscovites remained completely impassive. The silence swelled between them, until eventually England sighed.

"Well, if you are that desperate to continue fighting –"

"A truce." England blinked in mild surprise. Muscovite's eyes were unreadable, save for one emotion... _Greed..._

The cold nation continued. "We stop fighting for a week. If no conclusion is reached by the end, then we reopen fire as we did before. You do not fire upon us without warning. We do not fire upon you without warning." The familiar excited glint returned to his eye. "It makes things easier, don't you agree?"

England fought to stop himself from smiling. "Good. We start the discussions tomorrow, then." As he departed for his homeland, he felt a glimmer of hope slowly rising from the darkness, the sensation of thousands of people feeling marginally better. He didn't stop a smile this time.

The week slowly went on; meeting after meeting, plan after plan, ideas crumbling again and again. No compromise could be met. The candle-flame of hope was slowly being suffocated, and England's frustration grew every time he checked his mail for a word from Panem, but he kept himself together. _There is no danger,_ he reminded himself. _No pain for anyone for the week. Just come to a conclusion._

On day four of the truce, France turned up to his house and begged him to tell him what was going on. There was a gash half a foot long across his forehead. England stiffened.

"There is a truce. Muscovites can't attack you."

"This wasn't the Muscovites." France's hands were clasped together and held in front of him, giving him the illusion of someone in chains. "For the love of God, England, I hope you know what you are doing. My people's food is being rationed while the authorities tell them nothing."

"Tell them to enlist, that normally works. Gives them a purpose in life."

"Mon _Dieu,_ England, what are you doing?"

"I'm doing what I can."

On day six, England made his way to the edge of the Muscovites' realm. He brought a reasonably sized army with him, sure that the Muscovites would do the same. _It will be fine,_ he consoled himself. _There is still no danger. You'll come to a conclusion today._ It was a remarkably clear day. As the Sun took its snail-speed leap across the sky, weaving in and out of clouds, he stood and waited. Scary questions began to chew at the insides of his brain.

 _Suppose we don't come to a conclusion? Then what? I can't fire unless fired upon – but what if it's too late by then? This is the Muscovites and Japan – who's to say they haven't got something up their sleeve? And what if the truce is broken prematurely? I will be taken completely off guard. And then there's that greedy look I saw in his eyes... What if he's after the_ Glucose Volanticus _? What on Earth am I going to do?!_

Not for the first time in that week, England wished Amer- _Panem_ would talk to him. There was only so much he could say to France, knowing he was going through times as hard as him, and knowing he was moments away from a spiral of depression. What England would give for a little optimism.

The nation glanced back at his troupes. All armed, all on their guard, but none of them on the attack. The control team for the super weapon was there as well. _You still have that,_ though he dreaded thinking it, _If the worst does come to the worst, all you have to do is yell for them to fire._

 _There won't be any problems, anyway. You'll just reach a conclusion and end this war. This silly war that hasn't been anything really, nothing on that Religion War, or on World Wars One and Two. You have nothing to worry about..._

"England! Mr England, sir!"

 _Nothing... Nothing at all..._

England turned slowly to see the general hurrying towards him. "What?" he asked softly. Here was something to take his mind off this unbearable waiting.

 _Nothing. Accept it. Nothing._

"The home guard, sir – they've discovered Russian planes on the radar – armed ones, too –"

 _Nothing._

"We've ordered a retreat – you have to board the plane, sir, now –"

 _At... All..._

There was a void in England's mind, for a few moments. He felt his mouth open, close, and open again, quite without volition. He let himself see one glimpse of his general's stricken face, of the empty space behind him – and suddenly thoughts tumbled over him, enveloping and blunting his senses.

 _They've attacked. They've broken the truce. They have committed a war offence. I can attack now. I can't attack. I should be in England, protecting my country, rather than standing here in this cold, stupid,_ insane _land, they broke the truce, they broke the truce, at least my soldiers are all safe, what do I do, I can't just leave, Muscovites is a stinking, dirty rascal, why has he attacked, what kind of weaponry is on those damned planes, they broke the truce, they broke the truce, I can fire, I can fire, I can fire, kill, annihilate, destroy, I can fire...!_

"Damn it," he hissed, "Fire, damn it...!" His mind was ablaze with one thought: _Muscovites must die._ He raised his voice, screaming into his communicator to the control team –

"FIRE, DAMMIT!"

There was complete silence for two minutes. The wind was piercingly bitter; it whistled through the air, it rubbed against England and it burned. England felt, as his legs shook so hard they threatened to buckle, that he might catch fire from the friction.

A line of men in Russian outfits led by a tall, warmly clad gun-bearer came into view from behind the mist.

And then, all of a sudden, the sound was taken by screaming whistles, as the Muscovites' and England's heads all turned toward the sky – and three thousand miles away, England's last hope burned in a small incinerator marked with the Capitol Seal.


	4. Dreams

Chapter 4 – Dreams

 _First the whistles come, and the Muscovite soldiers raise their heads, searching for the source, looking up to the sky in unison. Banded together, with such an expression of universal confusion, they look like animals, cornered without realising it, about to be trapped. A few tentatively raise their weapons. The noise increases, the whistles sound more like screams, but – England remembers – this means that the bomb hasn't landed yet._ Glucose Volanticus _is getting closer. Some Muscovites start to retreat, all the generals too captivated by the situation to notice, but the nation himself stays._

 _Then – when England is sure that his eardrums are going to implode from the noise – the whistling stops, leaving a deadly echo._

 _He breathes in, closes his eyes. A soft thump is heard at his feet._

 _And then his eyes open to a sea of red. Screams fill the air around as the powerful explosion rends the land in two. He stares, paralyzed with horror, but charged with a strange exhilaration. His eyes slide up to The Muscovites himself._

 _The effect of his wonderful, glorious super weapon is astonishing. The former power before him wobbles on his legs a little, his mouth slowly opening to let out a moan. Blood drips from his ears, his mouth, his nose and he grips onto his gun for support. His scarf is dark crimson and his whole form trembles violently in a way that England has never seen before. Then an awful gasp wrenches from the Russian, this time causing him to properly double over, drop his gun and spit blood onto the ground, ugly black against the white. Another hit, in another part of the nation. That was what he planned, right?_

 _England kneels, to get a better look at the eyes of the spluttering man, eyes wide and horrified, yet cold as the air around them. A curl of satisfaction rises in his gut, unbidden. He hardens himself against it. "Speak."_

 _It's all he can think of to say. He regrets it later. Muscovites opens his mouth to speak._

" _It's truly a work of genius."_

 _What? That's not what he says. Not at all, right? "No. Say that again, the right way."_

" _It has the ability to cause extreme devastation – perhaps even wipe out a nation."_

 _The whistles start again and all goes white. When the tables and chairs appear, England does not notice it. The state simply shifts; one moment it is blinding white, the next he is standing – and has always been standing – in a room, with a man in a scarf facing him._

 _The faucet is raised high above his head, and England recoils. The man should not be smiling so much, not when his clothes hang off him, trailing stained shreds on the carpet, not when his eyes aren't even focussed. "Now..." says the grin. "Become one, da –"_

 _BANG. Suddenly, the smile slips open, the jaw goes slack in a silent scream, and the eyes remain unfocussed, but there is a universe of pain,_ physical _pain, building up in them. England can see it. He walks to his enemy, who has begun to shudder._

" _Yes... How does it feel? Speak."_

 _The man gargles, but doesn't speak. England narrows his eyes. "No. Say that again, the right way."_

 _The eyes of the dying man before him glow a little. They change. They go red, green, orange, brown, finally resting on bright blue. Something vile twists in England's stomach. Then the blue eyed man does speak._

" _Damn you England! Do you have any idea what I'm going through here?!" A soft whistle starts to sound in the distance._

 _England freezes. The man continues and the plane shifts once more – the surroundings of the two nations disappear, they were never there to start with. The whistling is getting louder and louder. England tries to grip a table that isn't there anymore for support, tries to block out the noise, because this voice hasn't sounded in his head for years._

" _You didn't just watch your brother die, slowly! You didn't feel what I did. That horror at the unfairness, that true and utter betrayal of trust. They KILLED him, England... Oh, Christ, England, they killed him..."_

 _The words spill from England's mouth. He knows this conversation off by heart._

" _I... I loved Canada as well..." The man before him places a fist on the floor, and pushes himself up on it, shakily, but surely._

" _No. You barely even knew his name." How is that man standing? How is he? He was spitting blood a moment ago. "What happened to us all, England? How did everyone become this... Heartless? It could be us next, you or me. I could stop caring. What will you do if I become like this – someone who can stand by and watch as a country dissolves itself?"_

 _England turns away, shivering in dread. "No, no, no, I'm not saying it, I'm not –"_

" _Yes..." The man before him hisses the word. The eyes are no longer blue. He advances, step by step; drip by drip of blood still clinging to him and for the first time in that long – England feels fear –_

" _You know what you are, da? You are more than what I thought you were. I underestimated you sorely, you..." The man's hands are around his throat and the whistling is deafening –_

 _Now England finds himself in a quiet garden, all alone. His own, in fact, his own as it was centuries ago. There isn't a blade out of place – each hedge neatly trimmed, each flower bed kept in perfect condition and bursting with roses - beautiful, British roses. He is sitting, he notices, on a patio outside his house, at a garden table with a pot of tea. Ivy crawls up the walls of the house behind. It is not a grand house, but it is by no means a cottage, just a simple, sophisticated detached suburban house. England decides that it is the best house in the world._

 _The war is over, and there is nothing to worry about. England sighs and shakes the dust and dirt out of his hair. He strives to ignore his own outfit – his war uniform, slightly spattered with red – and succeeds by concentrating on a now gently blowing breeze. The tea in the pot ripples._

 _Is there anyone there? He has to hear a voice. Any voice._

" _Speak."_

 _No sound, except the breeze. He does not say the next line just yet. He waits, anticipating. Then the sound of whistles starts up, fast and loud. Panic jumps through him, before he reminds himself that the weapon won't hit him; it is aimed at the Muscovites. Those whistles won't hit him, he knows that, but still he doesn't like it._

" _No. Say that again, the ri–"_

 _Then the whistles and the weapon hit him, assaulting like a bucket of cold water._

 _Now it's just darkness. He can't see a man in a scarf, and there is no whistle._

 _But there is something there, he knows it._

" _Speak."_

" _Ha-ha… It's sweet…"_

 _The funny thing is, this_ is _the right way. But still…_

" _No. Say that again, the right way."_

 _It takes a while for the darkness to be able to respond. The sound of spitting blood arrives, but still no whistling. England is glad._

" _You know what you are, da?"_

Yes, _he thinks._ Yes, I know what I am.

" _You are more than what I thought you were. I underestimated you sorely, you monster."_

 _There. That's it. That's all he wanted to hear._

"Corporal?"

"Yes, Mr England, sir?"

" _Sir_ alone is fine. Was there any further word from the Muscovites? Any of them?"

"Um, no, sir. Total silence, ever since we came back."

"So, two days, then."

"Yes, sir."

"And… And the place itself?"

"Deserted, sir. Not a soul, or any living matter as far as any of our infrared scans are concerned."

"Deserted."

"If you were going to ask me what a dead country looked like, sir…"

"Alright. Alright, I understand."

"… Sir?"

"That will be all, Corporal."


	5. Greed and Fear

Chapter 5 – Greed and Fear

 _February, 2233_

England glanced upward at the dripping ceiling. As a splat of green liquid dropped on his face, he packed up his embroidery, deciding he did not want it to be ruined by all this grime. He could do it later, when he could be bothered to move somewhere in his home that wasn't damp, cold or miserable. Instead, he sat alone with nothing but the chair, the table, a little food and his thoughts.

It would be far easier, he decided, to bear it if he were doing something. Not embroidery or cooking, but something serious, that _must_ be done so that these little whining thoughts could easily take a backseat to the bigger problems. England liked problems. He always had trouble balancing real things like warfare with his emotions, and problems helped him focus. Embroidery, he had realised recently, did the exact opposite.

In the midst of the dripping and dim English light, the phone rang. England did not hesitate to pick it up, but he took it slowly. _Anything to kill time._ "Hello."

"Angleterre... You have to get over here. There's a World meeting – held in my country – to discuss the end of the war. You are required to attend."

England stood up. "Any reason why you waited so long to tell me this? I might have prepared myself a little. And since when do we hold World meetings without any prior notice?"

There was a short pause, and when France next spoke his voice shook with suppressed frustration.

"Mon Dieu, England. I believe it is you who owes me an explanation. Now, if you please."

Poor France. He had no warning of any part of the situation. England would certainly want to know everything, were he in France's position.

"What is there to explain, France?" England spoke softly. "We won the war. I wiped out the Muscovites with my weapon. What else do you need to know?"

There was silence again at the other end of the line. England provided answers in his head.

 _Why I didn't tell you? How I was able to create such a weapon? How I can talk of wiping out another nation – a feat that has not been repeated for half a century – without so much as batting an eyelid?_

 _How the bloody hell do you expect me to answer those questions, France?_

Closing his eyes, briefly, England walked to the door and dusted himself off. "Apologies, my friend. I will join you shortly."

"Eleven o'clock. Do not come late."

...

France seemed to have gone out of his way to make his home look presentable for the meeting. The house was nearly completely free of dust, and all of his belongings were neatly placed on shelves or in cupboards. The rooms smelt of air-freshener, and although there was hardly a hair out of place, the house had the distinct impression of having been cleaned up quickly and frantically. The image of France dashing from room to room and squirting perfume into the air brought a brief smile to England's lips.

He was alone in the corridor, with no sound but his boots clicking against the wooden floor. Deciding that he wanted to spend a little time with France alone before Edelheim or Poland started running their mouths off over what territory they ought to get, he had come ten minutes early. There were things he needed to discuss with him, things which he hadn't been able to say over the phone.

The meeting room drew nearer, and with it the sound of voices. The mutterings were too quiet to be properly discerned, but England had been to enough of these meetings to place a foreign language, no matter how quietly it was whispered. He strained his ears for the drawling, heavy-tongued French. Waves of sound reached him; he decoded them automatically. Light voice, undulating tone, ornamentations on double consonants… Italian. _Great._ He's _here._ _So much for a quiet word with France._ He made out more voices: taut, crisp syllables, almost certainly Edelheim, and then a deep female voice. He was near enough now to make out the words.

"Well, _I_ think it's a disgraceful idea. You only bring yourself down to his level, by doing this."

 _Australia. She's free now, good for her,_ England thought, but then something unsettled him. _Except… Australia is_ never _early. She's late for every meeting, unless it's held in her country…_

"Don't be ridiculous," another voice scoffed. Edelheim again. "We can't simply let him roam free with such material."

"We did it many times," called another voice. With a jolt, England recognised it as Japan – the other opponent of Europe. What say did _he_ have in the peace treaties? And… _Eleven,_ France had said, and it was five minutes earlier, yet there were several nations here already, seemingly in the middle of a discussion. About him, England realised, astonished that he hadn't got it sooner. France, that cunning bastard, telling England to come later than everyone else, while he discussed him and his actions behind his back. There was a sour taste at the back of England's throat. "If you remember the last time a weapon capable of maximum destruction was created. You did nothing to take nuclear bombs away from Panem, and now he still has them." There was distinct bitterness in Japan's voice.

"What?" Italy. "I thought that the district with nuclear weapons was eliminated."

"Nein," Edelheim corrected his friend. "That district turned out to have survived. It's been revolting against the Capitol for weeks now."

"When was the last time a nation was killed?" Baltica now chipped in. "Many have died as a result of accidents. Those who were killed were not killed single handed, or instantly. Many simply faded. I am with Edelheim on this one." There were several murmurs of agreement, and England felt his heart racing.

"No!" Australia again. "Don't you _see?_ The fighting has just stopped – yes, at great cost, but it has still stopped! Why start unnecessary warfare? Do we want to lose any more of us – after there are so few already? Think! How many of the people who have been around all this time still meet like us?"

"Very few," Edelheim said. "And now one fewer, thanks to him, and that weapon. It was able to wipe out the Muscovites. Don't you get that? The Muscovites, once one of the great World powers."

"Once," Japan pointed out, quietly.

"Such a weapon," continued Edelheim, "Is simply not suited for England's hands. The damage he could cause with it speaks for itself."

Before anger could hit England in the core, he noticed something and suddenly froze. That tone in the German's voice, curling, sliding. Contempt, definitely… And greed.

 _That's all they want,_ England thought, surprised to feel a laugh bubbling inside him. _That's all they ever cared about._

Finally, France's voice came, quiet and reflective: "I agree."

That did it. The mirth was gone. England didn't have time to decide between feeling stung or enraged by the betrayal, before he was pushing open the door of the room.

The other nations inside jumped and glanced up at England. The expressions were different on each face, but many held, to England's satisfaction, the embarrassed flush of being caught red-handed. England surveyed the room and found France's face, which had been set into an indifferent, guarded expression. "Good day, gentlemen. I apologise for my lateness. I was told to arrive at Eleven o'clock."

He seated himself right next to France, as he always did. No one made a sound. England wondered, as he moved his eyes from face to face, if he was the victim of others plotting his demise and downfall or – (his eyes lingered on Edelheim a little, and tried to find the evil and malice in his rigid features) if _he_ was the one in a position of power, the one whom everyone feared. England liked that option. _It is better to be feared than loved._ And, if he was truly going to play such a role…

He leaned back in his chair, smiling a broad, handsome smile. "I can't have missed that much, I suppose. To be honest, I was confused from the start about why we were holding a meeting..." He turned his head to France, and kept the smile attached to his face. "I mean, we don't usually discuss the end of wars, do we, if the losing side is dead? What is there to discuss?"

There. The comment was very effective; France seemed to choke a little on his mask, steepling his fingers in front of his face, partially hiding the expression. England congratulated himself inwardly, before taking one last look at the faces around him. _Good,_ he decided, _Fear._

...

France only exchanged words with England again after the meeting, as he started to return home. He got as far as the exit of France's home, before he was stopped.

"Wait, England."

"What is it, France?" England found himself having to look upwards at France, who was standing uncomfortably close to him, and using his height advantage to glare down at him witheringly. England folded his arms in front of him and kept his back rod-straight.

"Those other nations won't speak to you about it, out of fear," France said. "I know you better. We may be allies, England, but I tell you that what you have done is wrong! Despicable! You will explain yourself, immediately!"

England would have thought about maintaining his pleasant demeanour, but his blood was hot. He scowled at France. "Your lack of trust and ungratefulness toward me is just as despicable. I won the war for us, didn't I? Why does it matter to you that that maniac was killed?" He sneered, his heart was pounding, "Face it, France, we all wanted him dead. You should thank me for preventing _you_ from having to do it."

France looked, for a moment, close to punching England. "Angleterre..." he breathed. "I cannot believe that I did not realise this before. You are a real monster. Were you always this ruthless, keeping it bottled up for centuries, or you have changed since I last saw you?"

There was a sudden tightness in England's chest. His hands curled into fists, and he opened his arms out to his sides. "You and I have both acted in so-called monstrous fashions in the past, France. I would have thought you had grown accustomed to it."

"I thought so too, England." A pause followed this, and England thought, _maybe he'll apologise, and we can go back to being allies,_ at the same time as thinking, _this piece of hypocritical cheese-shit,_ at the same time as thinking _he's fucking right._ "And we shunned each other each time one of crossed a line. So, I'm telling you that right now…" He pushed his shoulders back, assumed an almost comically formal stance, "A relationship cannot work between us."

England ignored the stabbing sensation in his gut. "Are you saying, then, France, that you no longer wish to be my ally? We are properly breaking ties – over this?" There was no emotion in his voice other than disinterested irritation. He felt a flicker of pride at this.

France shook his head, let out a huff. "You don't understand. I thought you might have done, considering all that you have seen. But you don't."

There was a long silence, during which England scanned France's eyes for any emotion other than pity – any hurt for loss of friendship, even a shred of desperation. England disliked the crease in those eyebrows, the almost imperceptible but unmistakeably patronising shake of the head. _He_ was the one in power; he was the one with the weapon. How dare France look at him like that?

He kept his long-time friend in a stare, impassive and cold. The door of France's house was open; England had opened it on his way out, and had not closed it as France stopped him from leaving. Now a chilled wind moaned from outside, causing both men to shiver slightly. For a moment, the blank expression on England's face vanished, replaced with a reaction of sorts to the cold, and he looked outside. Turning back to France, he asked simply: "So, that's a yes, then?"

He did not wait for a response from the nation behind him. Instead and waved a little to him, walked out of the house and closed the door carefully behind him.


	6. Jesus Killed Mexico

Chapter 7 – Jesus Killed Mexico

Spying on European nations was sadly never as fun as it appeared to be, unless it involved vast amounts of dangerous weaponry. Brazil had enough experience under her belt to know an upcoming arms race when she sensed one. She sniffed contemptuously, containing her excitement. "What," she said, "Some war-nerd makes a superweapon, and Europe gets the fits about it? Gosh, this has _never_ happened before."

Colombia bit her lip. "You're right. I don't think any other 'war-nerd' managed to wipe out a nation."

"False." Brazil swung her legs down from off the table, lifting herself to her feet. Colombia's lingering gaze did not go unnoticed, and she smirked. No one had to tell her that she moved with impeccable grace, that her figure was supple, that her dark eyes entrancing. Just looking into other people's lustful eyes was enough for her. "Didn't Christ prove us all wrong about that, what… 130 years ago?"

Colombia's eyes regained their lucidity. "I. What an odd way of putting it."

"Why?" It was metaphorical, of course. Colombia could never quite handle a metaphor. "It's true, isn't it? Mexico was killed by Jesus Christ." She gave a boisterous, genial smile. "Who was helped by plenty of war-nerds."

"You can't blame the Religion Wars on our Lord and Saviour."

"Have you ever heard the saying 'Clue's in the name'? _Religion Wars._ "

Colombia zoomed in on the digital transcript of the Peace Meeting, narrowing her eyes, as if there were nuances in the font which could reveal more details. "England's not giving up his weapon. France is on the verge of declaring war on him. And yet…"

"And yet _none_ of them are thinking of developing their own superweapons." Brazil let her implication sink in, watched for any change in Colombia's expression. The woman was not beautiful, Brazil was fairly sure, in quite the same way as the rest of the Latin Americans; she and Mexico had held that in common. They both wore rougher, more textured faces and skin, but in Colombia's case, she made up for any physical brusqueness with an enigmatic demeanour. Now, she turned away from the transcript and raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," she said softly, "They remember how every other arms race of history has ended. Perhaps they are tired, after just finishing one war."

"Bullshit." Brazil leaned down to examine the text. _" 'Such a weapon is simply not suited for England's hands.'_ That wording! Edelheim _wishes_ he held the reigns for… _Glucose Volanticus,_ was it? _Nome estúpidio."_ She brought fingers to her lips, and smiled with her teeth behind them. "He is just too lazy to make it himself."

"And you?"

"How hard could it be?"

Colombia smacked her shoulder, forcing Brazil to look her in the eyes. "Don't you care?" she hissed. "That weapon wiped out an entire _nation,_ Brazil! Those Europeans are right for once – it shouldn't exist at all!"

"But it's _going_ to, whether we like it or not," Brazil said. "Whoever wins this upcoming battle – do you really think they'll destroy something as powerful as this? And do you want to be prepared or not when they decide to stop ignoring us?" She reached for Colombia's small, dark hands. "It's only a matter of time before they get tired of blowing each other up in that godawful Eastern landmass, and you _know_ once they're finished, it's us they'll start targeting. Hell, maybe even Panem." Colombia wrenched her hand away.

"I won't have a part of it. I got you the transcript from the meeting, let's leave it at that." She rose, and kissed Brazil's hand. "Good luck with your mad science."

"Hm." _She'll come crawling back for protection, once I've cracked the code._ "As they say in your place, _Adios, amigo._ "

She lingered in the office for some time after Colombia had gone. It was a quaint little thing, used for the occasional smattering of Latin diplomacy. Mexico had always complained about how favourable it was to those in the Southern continent, how he had to travel _much_ further. Now, his picture hung on the Northern wall, along with Honduras, Chile on the Western and Uruguay on the Eastern… How many other continents did this for their fallen? She sauntered up to Mexico's scowling face, his tempestuous eyes – dark and dazzling, just like her own, never to meet hers again. "You would love this, _querido,_ she murmured. "It's got just the right amount of violence. And a certain amount of sexiness, in its own way." She planted a kiss on the glass. She wondered, not for the first time, if he still hated her from God's pastures. If death gave one time to reflect, in the way that grieving did. "Forgive me for the mistakes I am about to make."

After two minutes, she was outside, in her own air of Manaus, clammy and comforting. She whistled to it. "So, a return to biochemistry, with a sprinkling of nuclear physics on top – all to be done in total secret?" She grinned. "No match for my government."

 _April, 2233_

"Then it is settled," France packed up the documents, scooping the paperwork with his and England's signature on it into his delicate hands. His composure had been very well gained since the war ended. His hair had a little more bounce in it, and he was applying make-up again. "I will not surrender until you withdraw your ownership of the _Glucose Volanticus._ All clear?"

England nodded. France rose from his seat and turned to leave. "I'll see you on the battlefield, then. I will not go alone. I don't think I can say the same for you." The door closed quietly, but the rest of the room was also quiet, so the sound echoed tauntingly in England's ears.

It was only an hour later that the gravity of the situation seemed to dawn on him: he had virtually no allies. With France, and without a doubt Edelheim against him, there was no one in Europe who would join him, unless under his tyranny, and England had fought enough wars to know that a terrified ally was as useful as an extra enemy. Africa? Totally empty, as far as he knew. Not a word had been heard from _any_ of them, not for decades. Asia? India clearly did not want to associate with him – even less, now he was a murderer by any other name – which ruled out almost the entire sub-continent. The Muscovites was, well, _dead;_ Mongolia lay on the cusp of civilisation collapse. Wei Yao probably couldn't string a coherent sentence together, let alone fight a war,Iraq had hated him since their first meeting, and besides, he had plenty of powerful weapons on _his_ side…

England made himself a drink. He used his old-fashioned coffee-maker, with its chromatic-black surface, its spasmodic streams, and the shuddering rumbling sounds that accompanied them. Since his last meeting with India, tea had fallen somewhat out of fashion. As in, she refused point-blank to sell him any, no matter how much he attempted to negotiate.

He took his coffee facing the window, with a clear view of the streets. A few rotting stumps stood where the trees had only ten months ago, and it occurred to England now that he was used to seeing the cherry blossom at this time of year. There was a unique pleasure he associated with the sight of his own trees spreading their branches. They weren't magnificent, like Australia's or Panem's, nor were they as vivacious as some of the Latins'. They were polite, unassuming and, when the time was right, pretty: small specks of reaffirmed life where there seemed to be none.

And now, well.

The image of cherry blossoms brought another to England's mind. _Japan?_ His heart pounded. _Could_ he? Even if Japan was willing to side with him – an unlikely prospect, given their only too recent enemy-ship – what sort of alliance would it turn out to be? He would be _involved_ with the Eastern nations then, and all that entailed. Japan could very easily demand all sorts of terrifying things from England, particularly regarding _Glucose Volanticus,_ things which defied the most basic human morality. He could betray him and destroy him in one fluid action.

It never took England too long to weigh out the pros and cons of a situation. He reached for his tele-communicator, and prayed that his time zone was not too out of synch with Japan's.

" _Hai?"_

" _I just wanted to make sure you were aware that England will be attempting to call me very soon. Potentially within the hour."_

" _You have arranged a meeting, then?"_

" _Oh, nothing like that. I just know that he will try and call. He has no one else to turn to."_

" _I see."_

" _So, in the event that you receive a call?"_

" _You're extremely busy and will not be accepting international contact at this time."_

" _Absolutely, Nakamura."_

 _May, 2233_

Japan had yet to look England in the eye. His attention was split between multiple air-screens; he scrolled, zoomed, and flicked them to the side remotely, all with subtle motions of his black eyes. "I hope," he said, in an almost perfect English accent, "that you understand just how much of an inconvenience this meeting is to me. I am doing you an immense favour by giving you my time." He paused. " _Igirisu-sama."_

England smiled through his loathing. "I'm sure you'll give me plenty of time once I've levelled several of your cities."

The desired effect did not appear. Japan's eyes continued to swivel from screen to screen, never meeting England's, never showing a glimmer of fear. "Are you aware of my treaty with India?"

England swallowed. "No." _Secret fucking diplomacy._

"Ah. Well, you see, England, before the Muscovites waged war on the world, we gave each other a guarantee of support, in case of the other's endangerment. A blank cheque, if you will. It began with my promise of India's amnesty."

 _Fuck._ "I remember that. She wouldn't ally with me."

Japan finally closed a screen blocking England's face from his, and looked at him. He was not smiling, but his voice was. "I'm sure you understand why, as well. What with the state of Asia being the way it is, and India and I the most stable nations…" _You, stable?!_ "We look out for each other here, England. We're not all like Europe."

The audacity of the statement nearly cut off England's air supply with a choked laugh. Japan would talk about amnesty, when he razed the entire Orient to rubble. Japan, who reduced China's glory to a few scattered tribesmen, wandering the collapsed detritus of nature and civilisation, calling themselves _Wei Yao…_

"Now, if you _want_ to risk a war with the Indian subcontinent by attacking me, that's entirely your decision. International military has never been their strong point." The smile was gone from his voice now. "But don't forget that I am not the Muscovites, England. I won't be down long, no matter how many missiles you throw my way."

England's throat was constricted, still. The thought of India – his lovely, intelligent India! – choosing to ally with the likes of _Japan_ over him was having a rather adverse effect on him. Even more so, he realised with a painful internal twist, than France waging war. Japan did not seem to want a response anyway. He brought up the screen again, placing a grainy blue barrier between them. "Now, that threat you made earlier was tantamount to waging war on me, technically." _Why, oh bloody why?_ "But simply because I do value my people's lives over my pride –" _Like_ Hell _you do, you kamikaze freak -!_ "I will ignore it. Goodbye, _Igirisu-sama._ "

 _May, 2103_

Mexico was dying. He was imprisoned now, but America had not sent anyone to treat his wounds. They festered and he sat in the corner, broken hands and legs hanging uselessly off him. When Brazil entered his cell, his eyes followed her, but they were sluggish and haggard, lacking the intense hatred she was used to seeing. It was strange, but it disappointed her. "I'll say it for you, shall I?" He said, "Look how the tables have turned."

Of course, Brazil would never have said something so clichéd. Mexico couldn't stop underestimating her. "It certainly feels good to be free again," she replied, raising a hand to her ponytail, untying it.

"Fucking hell. Why couldn't you just side with me before, huh?" He gasped and clenched his arms to his side, trying to soothe some stab of pain that his hands could not reach. " _Cristo,_ I'm… I don't want to die…" His nose wrinkled in disgust, chastising his own admission. Brazil crossed the room and knelt at his side. He made a feeble effort to shrink away from her, but his back was already firmly against the wall. She placed a hand on his chest, and let herself, just for the moment, relish in his fear. He was not shaking, or making any sound other than laboured, pained breaths, but it was there in his eyes.

"Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain," she whispered. "How many times must I tell you?"

"You heard America. He's going to take anything and," he spat out a red globule, straight from his throat, "Everything. There'll be nothing left… Then you'll be sorry..."

"Sorry? I am envious, _querido._ " His heart thumped beneath her palm; she felt it as something alive and angry and, at long last, at her mercy. Her fingers crawled upwards, past his ragged shirt collar and onto his skin. "You are able to make peace and meet our maker. A gift, bestowed to but a few god-fearing nations."

"You crazy –"

"Sh. I have wondered for so long, how it is different. For us. My citizens, and Spain's, and Colombia's are saved for the heavenly host, but what about us?" The touch between them was natural; to her it was beautiful, even as he lay glowering at her, wishing their positions were reversed. It was becoming more and more difficult to restrain herself, but Brazil remembered her vows of chastity. "You will be able to find out before any of us, after America's _assimilation._ Would that you could tell me from beyond, what it is like."

"I _hate_ you." So venomous, so honest, so passionate that – Brazil was close enough to see – there were tears clinging to the corners of his eyes.

"I know you do." Brazil knew that she hated him back. She certainly had felt so in their last meeting. But she also knew that Mexico ached to hear her say it, so she smiled at him instead. A jolt of rebellion assaulted her; she knew it was blasphemous, but she found herself unable to resist as she bent her head down and kissed him on his cheek. Her mouth was slightly open and every sensation was blissfully magnified: the scratch of his stubble, the tang of his sweat. The muscle jerked under her lips, there was a definitely sharper intake of breath, but other than this, Mexico did not respond until she had pulled her head back.

"I'll be revenged," he said, "You and America will get what's _coming_ to you for this!"

The heat was dizzying. Brazil got up to leave. The realisation that she was finally able to do this, that she finally had her freedom back, nearly brought tears to her own eyes. "Don't blame us. There is only one will that matters, only one that will be carried out." She turned her eyes to the sole window in the cell, high above the prisoner's head, casting dusty streams of light over the stones. "The Lord wants you dead, Mexico."


	7. Life's a Circus

Life's a Circus

 _June, 2233_

Outside England's house, the rain threw itself upon a sleeping city, thick clouds forming a dark and howling shroud over London. Now past the phase of dry winter and spring, London was entering its own kind of monsoon season – summers that drowned cities with storm after storm. It was early morning; England sat on a sofa in his living room, nursing the same coffee that had kept him awake all night.

 _OK,_ He thought, because he had nothing else to think about, _Let's work it out, once more._ He took a few deep breaths. 

_Right – on one side there's me. On the other side there's France._ His friend.

Put like that, it seemed rather simple. _And with him there's Edelheim, Italy, Baltica, Poland, and pretty much the rest of Europe. Except Switzerland, of course._ If his intelligence was to be trusted, then Edelheim and Italy planned to send weaponry to France, support the war from the side-lines, and back up the others in the event of his invasion. Poland and Baltica would be on the battlefield itself, alongside France. And Asia was watching his movements on a hair trigger, ready to strike if he put a foot out of bounds on their territory.

England's coffee was cold. No matter how he envisioned the situation, it remained undeniably terrible. He rested his head in his hands, doing his best to contain a wail of despair, not at the lack of options, but the fact that the easiest one was glaring him in the face: he could surrender, and escape the problem entirely.

But then – then those other _greedy_ nations would have his weapon, and they would certainly use it against him. How could he possibly risk that? The weapon had given him the most stable position of power he'd had in _centuries…_ Then there was the undeniable fact – England was never the sort to back down. His pride would not let him do that, in any situation. When had he ever given himself up without a fight?

The only other option was to go to battle. England glanced at the ceiling, desperately keeping his emotions in control. _Keep calm and carry on._ He had gone for very long periods with no allies. He hadn't succumbed then. It was certainly not the first time he had gone against France, and right now he was the most powerful nation in Europe, even without a mighty empire. Then there was that blasted weapon...

England turned his head to the window, plastered with water and fallen leaves. His last thought before surrendering to sleep was a sturdy surety that he could, if nothing else, get out of this war in one piece.

...

"So, Switzerland has decided to join your side? Good for him."

France nodded, and England made a quiet and thoughtful sound. There was a pause, as England stared, not at France but at the Union Jack on the wall behind him. Nothing was said, for a moment. The tension had not been reduced in the slightest, with the declaration of war.

"I will try my hardest," France suddenly said, "To be as hard and rough on you as possible. My allies can say the same."

"As can I," England responded. "And, considering both of our positions, that works out better in my favour, if I say so myself." He did not believe any of the words coming out of his mouth, but he faked it convincingly. France nodded, tightly and crisply.

"I know. I do not underestimate your abilities... Or your limits." France was bitter, and this came through in his accent more than anything. His _'R's_ became more elongated, his vowels more pronounced. England leaned in close toward his enemy, releasing his last empathetic words.

"I beg you to reconsider declaring war on me. I will not hesitate to use all the technology I can. Think of your people, the danger you are putting them in."

France's stare hardened. "I am not a weak state, or a handful of anarchists like the Muscovites. Even your superior technology will not level or bring down my country."

"Oh?" England suddenly found himself smiling broadly, his body naturally filling the mould of confidence. "I can't wait to test that theory."

The colour very nearly drained from France's face; his eyes widened a notch and a few beads of sweat glistened on his brow. England chose to ignore these signs of weakness. He stilled his expression and made his final point. "We'll fight in Africa."

France was clearly taken aback. " _Africa_? You want to use that dead wasteland of a continent for our battlefield?"

England nodded. "Yes. Think, France. We will both be ruthlessly sending out attacks. Africa itself is damaged beyond repair, so no amount of our weaponry could affect it. I would hate to ruin the soil of either of our lands, if our aim is purely to fight each other and each other's men." He offered a smile, but one that he hoped was cold and pragmatic. He didn't want France to assume any signs of weakness in him. "I thought Kenya would be a good place to start."

France, to his credit, had now schooled his expression likewise. "I cannot fault that idea. We will assemble in Nairobi in one week for our first battle, then." France walked toward the door. " _Au revoir,_ England. I will see you on the battlefield. Prepare for the heat, why don't you?" And with a door-slam, the man was gone.

After a long silence of England standing alone in the house, he gave himself an order.

 _Forget it. Forget your morals and humanities. Forget your emotions and your friendships. All that matters now is that you win. Throw yourself into battle, don't even think about hesitating. Ruthless. Reckless. Relentless. The three 'R's – the keys to victory. Forget everything and you'll have all of Europe at your feet..._

What was he famous for? Bravery, that was what. Bravery, stubbornness and pride. Whether if it was suicidal guts like the Light Brigade, 600 in the valley of death, or true heroics like the Battle of Britain, or the Religion wars. He could be brave if he wanted, now. He could charge into battle like always, ruthless, reckless and relentless. No cowardice. No mercy. No restrictions. _The African desert stretches for miles._

His mind was not on the millions of times his cowardice had kept him at bay – how often he had sat and watched without a care, while other nations scorched and screamed and begged asylum. He was not thinking about Iraq, Wei Yao, or Panem. All he could see was the deadened, _defeated_ look of the Muscovites as he choked out his last breath of polluted fumes.

England felt a small, cruel and excited smile work its way toward his lips. He felt giddy. He couldn't see very clearly. He smiled more and more: it was so clear now. He was going to win all of this, he could rip them all to pieces and destroy them with ease, his weapon could engulf anything, if he wanted it to – He closed his eyes and let himself breathe happily and deeply.

A voice within him that was not his own screamed something. _It's gonna be great!_

Damn right, it would.

...

The military policy of the three 'R's was easy to grasp, easy to force on malleable citizens. It was, after all very basic, as was the plan. They would be sending out _Glucose Volanticus_ attacks throughout the first battle against the Swiss, the Baltics and the Poles. England could orchestrate as troops fought and offices at home sent the missiles to major cities, hopefully weakening the nations' morale. Other than that, and the soldier formation, the only plan was to fight as viciously as possible. The more experienced soldiers were equipped with recently designed grenades that held some things in common with ancient chemical weapons, but bore more resemblance to small but effective _Glucose Volanticus_ , to be used on field. The English Army were ready and prepared.

After arriving in Nairobi and having a short day of rest, the troops, led by England himself, marched to the battlefield itself, alone. As they had suspected, there was virtually no sign of civilisation, certainly nothing to indicate any national identity. They passed the odd hut, the occasional kilometre-wide settlement, but the place was hauntingly desolate. On their designated field, there was hardly any vegetation or wildlife at all, and the ground did not rise or lower in any way. It stood, a flat dust plane of a desert. The heat was not as intense as England remembered, but it was hot enough for the soldiers to start sweating in their heavy jackets, and for the wavering and lilting breeze (echoing so melancholic around the walls of heat in this dry, dry desert, not a puddle of water anywhere) to be a cool relief. The opposing troops were nowhere to be seen.

Half an hour passed. Some top-halves of uniform were taken off and tied round the waists of the hot soldiers, but England stayed, alert and fully clad, hands gripping his gun, his grenades, his programmer and his sense of control.

Then – after forty-five still minutes of near silence and no action, figures started to appear on the horizon, marching toward the bare and unblemished field. Slowly, painfully slowly they appeared to England and he could identify them – Switzerland leading an army of buttoned up military men, each armed with a rifle and apparently nothing else. The Poles and Baltics were led by their corresponding nations, blending in with each other in their similar complexions and uniforms. Their weaponry seemed more advanced; they were armed with miniature grenades and guns, though it was hard to see if they carried anything else. And then – England felt as though a cold stone were falling into his stomach – a familiar, brightly coloured band of troops began to appear. _France. He's not supposed to be here!_ That meant he was even more outnumbered. _Why would he come?_ England thought bitterly. _Damned cheat! He'd like nothing more than to see me fail…_ There was nothing to do now, but follow the same plan and hope for the best. The armies assembled before the English – outnumbering them horrendously – and prepared themselves, briefly. The first shot was awaited.

Then – with a deafening POW a shot was fired from a Swiss rifle, and the battle began with a roar. England remained near the back at first, fighting off any attacks with his gun and aiming for clusters with his grenades but mainly programming attacks on the nations from home, giving the special pre-planned orders to send the missiles to certain cities. There was no way to send them to France, without having known he'd be at the battle. A last piece of conscience spoke up in England – one that claimed he would never have the guts to send such a weapon to France anyway – but there was no time to dwell on these thoughts. He screamed orders into his earpiece, the words _fire_ falling loosely from his lips, the power filling him saccharinely.

Around him, the battle raged, furious and vile. The English were pumped with an empty desire to win, all respect and morals zapped out of them by propaganda and money, causing them to fight with a demonic strength and spirit. It made England proud to watch them. The enemies were obviously prepared for the worst, defending plenty of moves with great skill, and sending out attacks that matched the English's – simply by numbers, if not strength. Without England's notice, bodies began to litter the plane; as men dropped out of sight they seemed to lose their tangibility as well as their lives. The only thing that truly mattered was the battle, the thrill of defending his survival – and here he was, right in the heat of it.

A small beep came from the programmer. The first lot of missiles were all out, and the second were not ready yet. He couldn't send any more _Glucose Volanticus,_ at least for now. In the meantime, he would have to use his gun... No problems there. Now he could move properly to the frontlines. With a sneer, he sent a single shot into the sky, just for the pleasure of watching the bullet disappear into blue haze. _It's been too long,_ England decided, _when was the last time I got to_ enjoy _myself like this?_

"England?"

 _Don't listen! Don't listen; you're having far too much fun!_ Using a gun was far quicker and easier than the weapon. Not as mentally satisfying, but good, nonetheless.

"England –!"

POW. POW. Two more hits, two more unsupported puppets to fall to the ground. Another beep from his programmer told England that the next lot of missiles were ready. _Perfection._ He still continued to shoot, grin widening with each spurt of blood, with each cloud of smoke he saw rising from the battlefield and as he saw his enemies crumple to the ground, and _did he know that voice?_

"What –"

He did know it. He glared into the air in front of him, gripping his gun with more strength than was necessary and released bullet after bullet, again and again.

"Are you –"

Couldn't that voice just _shut up?!_ Where was the man, anyway? He was on this battlefield. He wasn't England. England had to be fighting him, then, so why couldn't he see him?

"Doing –"

POW. POW. POW, POW, POW. The guns were loud as ever, but the voice still rang out. The man must be close. England held his opponents in his steely glare, still grinning as much as he could, still braced for attack – but they were lowering their weapons. Baltica's piping voice rang out; he was calling his men back to a retreat. England raised his gun to their backs, an order to leave no man alive waiting on his tongue – but it _was_ strange, he had to concede, that he should suddenly become the only one sending out attacks. Even his own men were quieting, and the other side now stood silently, their eyes fixed, not on England but something _behind_ him…

" _England?!_ "

He turned, jerkily, gun still held in his arms. As soon as the man came into his view, the whole African battlefield fell silent as a rock.

"What are you doing, England?"

England's hands shook. He opened his mouth to say something, but words completely failed him. Instead, he turned away from the asker, still holding his gun as tightly as he could, and surveyed the landscape. He took in the sights of utter tear and destruction, blows inflicted by him and him only. The blood didn't cover the area. The sand had absorbed or covered most of it. What he could see very clearly was the amount of dead soldiers – dead by his own, the weapon or just by all those bullets. Baltica, Poland, Switzerland held together, sick and gasping. The weapon truly did take their toll on them. Only France was not shaking, instead he stood gaping in amazement and recognition at this man – this one man who may well have been their saviour, this one man who could stop England...

England looked from the dead field to the man, then back to the field. The soft wasteland breeze moaned, and England shook his head, as a single low exhalation of a laugh escaped his chapped lips. His eyes were slowly clearing of the fog, he saw now – _truly_ saw what was happening, what he was doing. His eyes were downcast, and he could see now that all the dead were looking at him, they looked at England with all those expressions he _hated –_ repulsion, fear, greed, pity. There was no way out now – he had known from the start that it was a dead end to run into the war like that, and now he found himself up against it.

 _Look what I've gone and done. Look at how I've messed things up._

England turned around again, to face the man. His face was oddly made up, weird patterns lining the features that were frozen with shock and horror. The face brought an old, familiar stinging to England's eyes but he forced it back, instead smiling. He shook from the effort of swallowing the lump in his throat, but it was too much. The more he looked into the man's eyes, the harder it became, and before he could register and arrest himself, tears were falling onto the dust in front of him, swallowed immediately by the greedy earth. He looked down at his gun. When he finally felt that he was able to, he spoke, loudly and clearly.

"Well, well... Fancy seeing you here, America."

He hadn't noticed. He had been too busy, doing something stupid and senseless to realise that he'd changed, despite the many times he'd said - _promised –_ he wouldn't. He was more than a monster, or a demon. He was a nation. He had power.

He looked back at the damage, again. With a heaving sigh, he brought the heavy gun to his own ragged head, eyes still gorging on the face of his friend.

Pow.

Not smiling anymore, his last thought was of how _quiet_ the bullet was, and how painful.


	8. Too Late

CHAPTER 8 – Return of the Hero

After around two hours, all the liquid blood on the dust had evaporated. The heat was ferocious, and the fumes left from artillery and _Glucose Volanticus_ fire hung, scorching the air. The stains left behind were more brown than red, and could have been mistaken, from a distance, for darker sand.

After around three hours, every corpse had been fumbled away, every soldier gone, except England, who stayed on the ground: a dark, sunburnt figure with half his face shredded. He lay, unmovable, and allowed himself to be consumed by the dirt and fumes and heat.

After around two weeks, the ground was empty again.

In the same moment as a bullet ripping through England's skull, every unit of _Glucose Volanticus_ was launched in random directions. Most landed somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. Two landed in the continent, one in France and one in the Netherlands. Five landed in Great Britain. In the weeks that followed the devastation, the politicians and department leaders would never be seen associating the catastrophe with what some cruel journalists dubbed a "national suicide".

Panem stood uncomfortably in France's base. There were seats available, but France was still standing and Panem wasn't sure if he would seem rude if he sat down. After centuries of not talking to a single other nation, sometimes you forget what the proper thing is, in other countries.

"Please," came France's awful, thick voice, "sit down. You must be tired… Such a long trip…"

Panem sat. France placed his palms on the table, and leaned forwards onto them, letting his head droop, but he did not take a seat. Panem heard a soft hiccup, and felt panicked, because he didn't know how to _talk_ to France, let alone comfort him, and also because he had hoped _he_ would be allowed to break down for once. Right now, there was too much happening, too many sudden long-forgotten emotions clambering inside him, for him to truly feel anything. However much he wanted to.

France lifted a hand to wipe his face. "I thought," he choked, "I thought I would be able to talk him down. We were supposed to w-win, and I was supposed to – to put him back into order..." he raised his head, and Panem could see that his features were twisted, his eyelids fluttering frantically. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to see this."

Panem sighed. _I'll let myself feel later, then._ "Not your fault," he assured.

France's eyes suddenly brimmed over, and he sat down in the seat opposite Panem's, shoulders trembling and sobs thrumming out from his chest, soft and steady as a heartbeat. Panem reached over awkwardly, to pat him on the arm. He tried to see it from France's perspective – having to watch a friend go mad, after so many years of staying sane together, after weathering the storm hand in hand, and then to see that immense self-destruction. _Where have I seen that before?_

There was an image in Panem's mind. A young, determined president-to-be with stark-white hair, looking up at him with an expression that said _We'll be heroes together!_ Then forming a new, _better_ regime, a country shaped like a wheel, with thirteen spokes and one central Capitol. Then watching helplessly through the generations, president after president, as order became oppression, and those bright, hopeful eyes sank into merciless hollows...

France suddenly looked up from his hand, his expression hard. " _Panem,_ " he said, as if he had only just noticed him. "Why are you here?" His eyes were foggy with grief, but now they cleared up, leaving a sharp wariness.

Panem swallowed. "I was tired of being separated from the rest of the world. I heard that there would be a… meeting here. In Kenya." _Not. A fucking. Battle._

"You are a monster." There was no rage; the tone resembled more a quiz master confirming an answer. "Your own children…"

"We don't do that anymore." It was true, and yet the words smacked of shame. "We uprooted that government." He knew this was not enough reparation. The other countries would not simply forgive a century of cruelty, there were disciplinary actions that must be taken, Panem must be judged… All this, he understood, would be deserved, and yet his skin prickled. He allowed it to; if he felt the fear but still pushed onwards, that was a sign of bravery. He could, at least, be brave.

France closed his eyes. "Alright. So, you're back."

"Aren't. Aren't you going to… Do something?"

"Do what?" France gave a barely perceptible smile. "Demand reparations? Your actions never affected me."

"But, you just said…"

"Yes, you were a monster. As you have clarified, you are no longer one." He sighed, an old and weary sigh. "Let's leave it at that." Panem felt ashamed of the immense relief he felt at these words. He _deserved_ punishment. "You must be very confused as to what to do next, mustn't you?"

"I want to help." The words felt weak on his tongue, somehow archaically naïve. Perhaps "help" was a concept that would be accepted a century ago, but now? He had just watched a nation kill himself on the spot. Was there any kind of precedent to this? What _was_ the appropriate response? "I'm sure there's a lot that needs sorting out, after… Well. After that." He had a faint idea now, of the circumstances leading up to England's death. There had been a weapon, a disagreement over said weapon, and somewhere in it all, England had lost his sanity and life.

In the silence, France bowed his head, leaving his full head of hair visible, dirty and tangled, but still, in its own way, elegant. His shoulders were not shaking with tears, but his hands were. A disturbing thought occurred to Panem.

"France," he said, "England is gone. His country is empty. We need to do something, don't we?" France didn't look up. "That – that weapon thing you were talking about – _Glucose... Glucose Valerie?_ You know..."

" _Glucose Volanticus_."

"Yeah, that. Didn't you say that it was the thing that started the whole war?"

France's twitching fingers went still. "It was destroyed."

Panem nodded. "But the plans weren't. How much of a threat do you think the weapon would pose, if it were ever rebuilt?"

France looked up at him. "I can hardly imagine it. Particularly in… A _dead_ country…"

"We've got to get the plans out of England, France. You know we do."

France wiped his face and said, "Before anything worse happens. You are right, Panem." He faltered. "I mean. Of course, if you are actually… If you don't just want to... You are needed in your country, are you not?"

"They can manage for a little while," Panem decided. "I'm in, for this. As long as we destroy them the moment we've got 'em. You're not… We're not having another England."

France gave him a humourless smile. "In case you have forgotten, _Pain,"_ – and the foreign version of his name oozed, another splash of the outside world – "there are other countries still out there. Still starving, still desperate for control. If anyone would take the weapon for themselves, it's them."

…..

There were parts of the border between Switzerland and Italy that were not policed. If you knew where to sneak, you could simply take a step, and find yourself in an entirely different country. One step was all it took, and the earth was different, the rules were different, the very air was different.

None of this mattered, as far as the warmongers were concerned. They weren't bothered by earth, or air, and certainly not rules. They dragged themselves as an army, from the very top of Italy to the very bottom of Switzerland. They walked with the best weapons they could scavenge: rocks tied with rope, pieces of farm fencing wrapped with barbed wire, and variations of a long piece of wood with sharp implements hammered into its flesh.

" _Guerra! Guerra!"_

A settlement lay a kilometre ahead. They pulled their pieces of metal and tree, readying their arms for attack. Then they ran forwards and screamed.

" _Guerra! Guerra!"_

Energy buzzed through bone and muscle, as legs thundered across the countryside, feet kicked mud up in the air, and arms holding heavy instruments pushed against the wind. Euphoria seeped through the skin, as the first blows were landed, as the warmongers unleashed all rage through blessed, beautiful violence.

"Savage, isn't it?"

Edelheim clenched his fists. "It's out of order. How dare you allow your people to commit these crimes." He kept his eyes lowered, unable to look at Italy, unable to look at his open maroon eyes.

Schilacci chuckled, "You'll talk to me about order? You leave your country for one moment, and the place descends into madness. You're the only German who still _believes_ in the notion of order."

Edelheim was sure Italy was gazing at him pityingly, so kept his eyes down.

"I don't allow these thugs to do as they wish out of negligence. I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm the only one who knows what they're doing. Those savages, they are my people's voice. The voice of the whole world. _Guerra._ "

"But why?" Edelheim said, and he couldn't keep the bite out of his tone. He looked up at Schilacci, but Italy cut into his line of sight, a shock of auburn.

Italy said, "They're bored."

"I want England's weapon," said Schilacci.

"England is dead."

"Making his weapon fair game, wouldn't you think? Say you'll support me."

Edelheim pondered Schilacci, giving his overflowing body a long, harsh look. No one could doubt what he had done for Italy. He had opened his eyes, dark reddish-brown, and he'd brought him out of depression in more ways than one. In a horrible secret way, this made Edelheim's insides squirm, but not as much as Schilacci's smile did. He took too much pleasure out of what he did, Edelheim reasoned, which always indicated a lack of professional approach.

The voices tinkled into the office once more: " _Guerra! Guerra!_ " Edelheim was no fool, and he knew exactly why Schilacci had brought them out here to watch the warmongers, why he chose now to discuss the plans for _Glucose Volanticus._ It wasn't blackmail, as such: just a reminder of how much Edelheim depended on Italy.

"Yes. Of course I will support you." _It's not so terrible. And anyway, it's not as if England has any need for the weapon._ Sometimes, a strong ally was all you needed, and one strong weapon. If Edelheim had just a fraction of the full potential of _Glucose Volanticus_ , the Weimar Project could get fully underway, and the German people could have respect for order once more…

"Good." Schilacci's lips stretched out. "Now say you'll submit. Say you will fall in line under Italy, and me."

 _No,_ was on Edelheim's tongue, _that's too much._ His cheeks burned, and he muttered with as much dignity as he could muster, "If I refuse?"

Schilacci looked out at the scenery, at the distant village from which flames were starting to rise. "It would be sad if those savages made it past your borders, wouldn't it?"

Edelheim choked out a laugh. "You think I cannot handle a few men with sticks?" _Why on earth did I question him?_

"I'm sure you can. Your _people,_ on the other hand?" Schilacci grinned, and shook his head, as if in sympathetic distress. "I'm not even saying I will invade you, should you turn your back on me. Or that I will in any way encourage an invasion by the warmongers. Italy simply will not protect or aid you in any way. And once the most powerful weapon known to man is with us…" He raised a finger, in anticipation, waited for the cry –

" _GUERRA!"_

Schilacci smiled. "When that happens, whose side do you really want to be on, my dear _Germania_?"

President Paylor was waiting outside the government building when Panem returned. It was dark in his country already, when the Sun had been burning furiously in Africa just an hour earlier. Panem tried to shake the confusion out of his head, deciding to re-figure-out time-zones at a later date. He shook Paylor's hand, felt how cold it was. How long had she stood here? "Thanks for waiting."

"You took a long time. Where were you?" Panem opened his mouth, thinking he had the story right there to tell, thinking he knew how to recount the nation's first trip to the world outside with an appropriate level of professionalism. He felt his throat closing up, and knew he was wrong.

"H-he. He's dead…"

Paylor furrowed her brow. "Who's dead? Not – not one of the scouts? I thought they all came back without –"

" _England._ England's dead." His father, and mentor, and rival, and closest friend. The only one who ever really loved him, other than Canada. Now, without the weight of France sobbing his eyes out, or the heat of Africa making it all feel so surreal, Panem could feel the situation exposing itself to him in ways he hadn't remembered were possible. It was as if splashes of bright colours were invading a landscape of muted shades – violent purples and reds, so familiar, but eye-scorching in their brightness, against the faded echoes of before.

He didn't even notice that tears were dribbling down his face until Paylor gave a small gasp. "Oh, Panem, I'm… Shall we come inside? You've had a long trip. You need some rest." The uncertainty in her tone was endearing. "You people do rest, right?"

Panem shuddered, closed his eyes, and slowly took back control over his body. He dried his eyes. "Thank you, Ms President. But, really, I'm fine." Because behind the ebbing waves of grief, he could feel something else, something awakened. Through the two rebellions, Panem had felt little more than vague interest in a sea of apathy. The isolation had buried a world of feeling that was now pouring out into him, and for the first time in a hundred years, Panem felt _alive._


	9. Return of the Hero

CHAPTER 8 – Return of the Hero

After around two hours, all the liquid blood on the dust had evaporated. The heat was ferocious, and the fumes left from artillery and _Glucose Volanticus_ fire hung, scorching the air. The stains left behind were more brown than red, and could have been mistaken, from a distance, for darker sand.

After around three hours, every corpse had been fumbled away, every soldier gone, except England, who stayed on the ground: a dark, sunburnt figure with half his face shredded. He lay, unmovable, and allowed himself to be consumed by the dirt and fumes and heat.

After around two weeks, the ground was empty again.

In the same moment as a bullet ripping through England's skull, every unit of _Glucose Volanticus_ was launched in random directions. Most landed somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. Two landed in the continent, one in France and one in the Netherlands. Five landed in Great Britain. In the weeks that followed the devastation, the politicians and department leaders would never be seen associating the catastrophe with what some cruel journalists dubbed a "national suicide".

Panem stood uncomfortably in France's base. There were seats available, but France was still standing and Panem wasn't sure if he would seem rude if he sat down. After centuries of not talking to a single other nation, sometimes you forget what the proper thing is, in other countries.

"Please," came France's awful, thick voice, "sit down. You must be tired… Such a long trip…"

Panem sat. France placed his palms on the table, and leaned forwards onto them, letting his head droop, but he did not take a seat. Panem heard a soft hiccup, and felt panicked, because he didn't know how to _talk_ to France, let alone comfort him, and also because he had hoped _he_ would be allowed to break down for once. Right now, there was too much happening, too many sudden long-forgotten emotions clambering inside him, for him to truly feel anything. However much he wanted to.

France lifted a hand to wipe his face. "I thought," he choked, "I thought I would be able to talk him down. We were supposed to w-win, and I was supposed to – to put him back into order..." he raised his head, and Panem could see that his features were twisted, his eyelids fluttering frantically. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to see this."

Panem sighed. _I'll let myself feel later, then._ "Not your fault," he assured.

France's eyes suddenly brimmed over, and he sat down in the seat opposite Panem's, shoulders trembling and sobs thrumming out from his chest, soft and steady as a heartbeat. Panem reached over awkwardly, to pat him on the arm. He tried to see it from France's perspective – having to watch a friend go mad, after so many years of staying sane together, after weathering the storm hand in hand, and then to see that immense self-destruction. _Where have I seen that before?_

There was an image in Panem's mind. A young, determined president-to-be with stark-white hair, looking up at him with an expression that said _We'll be heroes together!_ Then forming a new, _better_ regime, a country shaped like a wheel, with thirteen spokes and one central Capitol. Then watching helplessly through the generations, president after president, as order became oppression, and those bright, hopeful eyes sank into merciless hollows...

France suddenly looked up from his hand, his expression hard. " _Panem,_ " he said, as if he had only just noticed him. "Why are you here?" His eyes were foggy with grief, but now they cleared up, leaving a sharp wariness.

Panem swallowed. "I was tired of being separated from the rest of the world. I heard that there would be a… meeting here. In Kenya." _Not. A fucking. Battle._

"You are a monster." There was no rage; the tone resembled more a quiz master confirming an answer. "Your own children…"

"We don't do that anymore." It was true, and yet the words smacked of shame. "We uprooted that government." He knew this was not enough reparation. The other countries would not simply forgive a century of cruelty, there were disciplinary actions that must be taken, Panem must be judged… All this, he understood, would be deserved, and yet his skin prickled. He allowed it to; if he felt the fear but still pushed onwards, that was a sign of bravery. He could, at least, be brave.

France closed his eyes. "Alright. So, you're back."

"Aren't. Aren't you going to… Do something?"

"Do what?" France gave a barely perceptible smile. "Demand reparations? Your actions never affected me."

"But, you just said…"

"Yes, you were a monster. As you have clarified, you are no longer one." He sighed, an old and weary sigh. "Let's leave it at that." Panem felt ashamed of the immense relief he felt at these words. He _deserved_ punishment. "You must be very confused as to what to do next, mustn't you?"

"I want to help." The words felt weak on his tongue, somehow archaically naïve. Perhaps "help" was a concept that would be accepted a century ago, but now? He had just watched a nation kill himself on the spot. Was there any kind of precedent to this? What _was_ the appropriate response? "I'm sure there's a lot that needs sorting out, after… Well. After that." He had a faint idea now, of the circumstances leading up to England's death. There had been a weapon, a disagreement over said weapon, and somewhere in it all, England had lost his sanity and life.

In the silence, France bowed his head, leaving his full head of hair visible, dirty and tangled, but still, in its own way, elegant. His shoulders were not shaking with tears, but his hands were. A disturbing thought occurred to Panem.

"France," he said, "England is gone. His country is empty. We need to do something, don't we?" France didn't look up. "That – that weapon thing you were talking about – _Glucose... Glucose Valerie?_ You know..."

" _Glucose Volanticus_."

"Yeah, that. Didn't you say that it was the thing that started the whole war?"

France's twitching fingers went still. "It was destroyed."

Panem nodded. "But the plans weren't. How much of a threat do you think the weapon would pose, if it were ever rebuilt?"

France looked up at him. "I can hardly imagine it. Particularly in… A _dead_ country…"

"We've got to get the plans out of England, France. You know we do."

France wiped his face and said, "Before anything worse happens. You are right, Panem." He faltered. "I mean. Of course, if you are actually… If you don't just want to... You are needed in your country, are you not?"

"They can manage for a little while," Panem decided. "I'm in, for this. As long as we destroy them the moment we've got 'em. You're not… We're not having another England."

France gave him a humourless smile. "In case you have forgotten, _Pain,"_ – and the foreign version of his name oozed, another splash of the outside world – "there are other countries still out there. Still starving, still desperate for control. If anyone would take the weapon for themselves, it's them."

…..

There were parts of the border between Switzerland and Italy that were not policed. If you knew where to sneak, you could simply take a step, and find yourself in an entirely different country. One step was all it took, and the earth was different, the rules were different, the very air was different.

None of this mattered, as far as the warmongers were concerned. They weren't bothered by earth, or air, and certainly not rules. They dragged themselves as an army, from the very top of Italy to the very bottom of Switzerland. They walked with the best weapons they could scavenge: rocks tied with rope, pieces of farm fencing wrapped with barbed wire, and variations of a long piece of wood with sharp implements hammered into its flesh.

" _Guerra! Guerra!"_

A settlement lay a kilometre ahead. They pulled their pieces of metal and tree, readying their arms for attack. Then they ran forwards and screamed.

" _Guerra! Guerra!"_

Energy buzzed through bone and muscle, as legs thundered across the countryside, feet kicked mud up in the air, and arms holding heavy instruments pushed against the wind. Euphoria seeped through the skin, as the first blows were landed, as the warmongers unleashed all rage through blessed, beautiful violence.

"Savage, isn't it?"

Edelheim clenched his fists. "It's out of order. How dare you allow your people to commit these crimes." He kept his eyes lowered, unable to look at Italy, unable to look at his open maroon eyes.

Schilacci chuckled, "You'll talk to me about order? You leave your country for one moment, and the place descends into madness. You're the only German who still _believes_ in the notion of order."

Edelheim was sure Italy was gazing at him pityingly, so kept his eyes down.

"I don't allow these thugs to do as they wish out of negligence. I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm the only one who knows what they're doing. Those savages, they are my people's voice. The voice of the whole world. _Guerra._ "

"But why?" Edelheim said, and he couldn't keep the bite out of his tone. He looked up at Schilacci, but Italy cut into his line of sight, a shock of auburn.

Italy said, "They're bored."

"I want England's weapon," said Schilacci.

"England is dead."

"Making his weapon fair game, wouldn't you think? Say you'll support me."

Edelheim pondered Schilacci, giving his overflowing body a long, harsh look. No one could doubt what he had done for Italy. He had opened his eyes, dark reddish-brown, and he'd brought him out of depression in more ways than one. In a horrible secret way, this made Edelheim's insides squirm, but not as much as Schilacci's smile did. He took too much pleasure out of what he did, Edelheim reasoned, which always indicated a lack of professional approach.

The voices tinkled into the office once more: " _Guerra! Guerra!_ " Edelheim was no fool, and he knew exactly why Schilacci had brought them out here to watch the warmongers, why he chose now to discuss the plans for _Glucose Volanticus._ It wasn't blackmail, as such: just a reminder of how much Edelheim depended on Italy.

"Yes. Of course I will support you." _It's not so terrible. And anyway, it's not as if England has any need for the weapon._ Sometimes, a strong ally was all you needed, and one strong weapon. If Edelheim had just a fraction of the full potential of _Glucose Volanticus_ , the Weimar Project could get fully underway, and the German people could have respect for order once more…

"Good." Schilacci's lips stretched out. "Now say you'll submit. Say you will fall in line under Italy, and me."

 _No,_ was on Edelheim's tongue, _that's too much._ His cheeks burned, and he muttered with as much dignity as he could muster, "If I refuse?"

Schilacci looked out at the scenery, at the distant village from which flames were starting to rise. "It would be sad if those savages made it past your borders, wouldn't it?"

Edelheim choked out a laugh. "You think I cannot handle a few men with sticks?" _Why on earth did I question him?_

"I'm sure you can. Your _people,_ on the other hand?" Schilacci grinned, and shook his head, as if in sympathetic distress. "I'm not even saying I will invade you, should you turn your back on me. Or that I will in any way encourage an invasion by the warmongers. Italy simply will not protect or aid you in any way. And once the most powerful weapon known to man is with us…" He raised a finger, in anticipation, waited for the cry –

" _GUERRA!"_

Schilacci smiled. "When that happens, whose side do you really want to be on, my dear _Germania_?"

President Paylor was waiting outside the government building when Panem returned. It was dark in his country already, when the Sun had been burning furiously in Africa just an hour earlier. Panem tried to shake the confusion out of his head, deciding to re-figure-out time-zones at a later date. He shook Paylor's hand, felt how cold it was. How long had she stood here? "Thanks for waiting."

"You took a long time. Where were you?" Panem opened his mouth, thinking he had the story right there to tell, thinking he knew how to recount the nation's first trip to the world outside with an appropriate level of professionalism. He felt his throat closing up, and knew he was wrong.

"H-he. He's dead…"

Paylor furrowed her brow. "Who's dead? Not – not one of the scouts? I thought they all came back without –"

" _England._ England's dead." His father, and mentor, and rival, and closest friend. The only one who ever really loved him, other than Canada. Now, without the weight of France sobbing his eyes out, or the heat of Africa making it all feel so surreal, Panem could feel the situation exposing itself to him in ways he hadn't remembered were possible. It was as if splashes of bright colours were invading a landscape of muted shades – violent purples and reds, so familiar, but eye-scorching in their brightness, against the faded echoes of before.

He didn't even notice that tears were dribbling down his face until Paylor gave a small gasp. "Oh, Panem, I'm… Shall we come inside? You've had a long trip. You need some rest." The uncertainty in her tone was endearing. "You people do rest, right?"

Panem shuddered, closed his eyes, and slowly took back control over his body. He dried his eyes. "Thank you, Ms President. But, really, I'm fine." Because behind the ebbing waves of grief, he could feel something else, something awakened. Through the two rebellions, Panem had felt little more than vague interest in a sea of apathy. The isolation had buried a world of feeling that was now pouring out into him, and for the first time in a hundred years, Panem felt _alive._


	10. The Stampede

CHAPTER 9 – The Stampede

" _Panem, come look!" Fingers pointing to a screen, the familiar feeling of repressing a flinch. "Look at that," says Snow's assistant, an elegant young creature. "The little one made it!"_

 _There's a boy with a rock in one hand, his other hand clamped down on the wrists of an older girl. He's straddled over her body, the hand with the rock raised high and dripping blood. The girl spasms a little, as pink stuff leaks out of one side of her head, and the boy yowls in triumph, throwing the rock to the floor. In the distance a cannon booms._

" _He's twelve. She's fourteen."_

 _Panem has no emotions. He never did, did he?_

" _He's twelve. She's fourteen."_

 _What Panem has is hope. Hope for a brighter future, one where the Districts can enjoy this special time of year just like the Capitol does. He hopes for the day when all the control is regained, hopes for the day when all can sleep without fear of an uprising._

" _He's twelve. She's fourteen. Panem, are you listening? Panem? Panem?"_

Panem's blankets suffocated him, he felt them clinging and desperately threw them off himself. They tangled in his legs, and he lifted his arms up to air out the sweat built up underneath them. It was always hard to sleep in the humid summers, and the sleep he _did_ get…

"Panem-san."

Panem reeled back and felt the sharp edge of the headboard dig into his skull. " _Shit!_ " It was _dark._ He checked the clock. "Three-forty - dammit… Paylor? That you?"

"You don't recall me?"

The voice and honorific were familiar, but there was a layer of cotton wool over any specific memory. A blurry image came to Panem's mind, one that felt as distant as the time before the Districts. "You're a nation." He jerked himself to full alertness – did this mean an invasion? If a nation broke into his house?Little fragments of images started to piece themselves together – dark, sombre eyes, straight choppy hair, snuggled on a sofa watching a horror film, chopsticks on a tray of half-eaten food in front of them. "Juh- Japan."

A figure in white stepped out from the shadows. Panem found himself desperately trying to remember all the things he needed to know about Japan – what the correct manners were, what subjects were likely to offend him, the last thing he'd seen him do. Alongside all the old, golden history of friendly sharing of cultures, and curious fascinations with each other, Panem could see Wei Yao in the desert. "It is good to see you re-integrated into the world, Panem-san."

Panem stiffened his shoulders, and folded his arms. "Not very polite to break into someone's house like that, Japan. I expected better."

Japan tucked a tendril of hair behind his ear. His left hand moved into view, gripping the handle of a very long sword, sheathed in gold-plated ebony. Panem forced his breathing to stay even. "I apologize, then, for my rudeness, but the door was unlocked, and I saw no need to refrain from meeting with you, however abruptly. I come with a message, and I decided I did not want the inconvenience of having all your ministers around. Or France." He smiled, icily. "I do not think that France likes me very much. I was only fighting a war with him a handful of years ago, you know."

 _Another war? What else did I miss?_

"Which brings me to my message itself." Japan glided to the side of the bed. "You've only just rebuilt your system. Very vulnerable. I have the decency not to make a pre-emptive strike on a nation that's barely made contact with the rest of the world."

"Oh," Panem said, "I'm so glad. We good, then?"

Japan narrowed his eyes. "If you side with France and make any attempts to retrieve the _Glucose Volanticus_ weapon, rest assured I will make no movements to stop my country's warmongers from raiding your districts. In fact, I will go further: I will _guide_ them to your districts. I will furnish them with appropriate weaponry."

"Wait, hold up. _Warmongers?_ They're in your country too? _"_

"They are in every country. It is simply taking longer in some places for them to develop." Panem's mind went to the great tracts of farmland in the western districts, and he wondered how many of those bent-backed loggers and agriculturists were latent criminals, how many itched to wreak havoc with a piece of wood and metal in their hands. "Like I said, I would never attack a country as politically weak as yours, but my people have minds of their own. I am sure you of all people can understand that."

Japan stroked the black sheath, traced the gold design with a forefinger. "It's not that I don't want you interacting with the world. But I have an agenda here, Panem-san. If I'm going to become _ichi-ban,_ then I'm going to need you staying as much _out_ of world politics as possible. Definitely out of the arms races." His smoky eyes met Panem's, cold. "France is not good for you, Panem-san. Do not be lured into his schemes. You do not want to end up as England did, I assume?"

Panem knew he was supposed to feel terrified. He could sense that Japan's tactics were effective, and he could picture in his mind's eye some other nation, cowering at the impassive face, knowing the power and destruction that lay behind it… But the fear did not seem to be getting to him. He had just woken from a dream where a twelve year old boy butchered a girl two years older than him – what was there to scare him anymore? And the callous mention of England sent a bolt of anger into him, pushing him into his response.

"You think I care whether your _pathetic_ people come here or not?" Panem smirked. The confidence was securing his position with the upper hand. "In case you've forgotten, my country just withstood a huge rebellion, and we all seem to be coping fairly well. We've got _nukes._ I've personally witnessed the power some of our mutts have, and – " he suppressed a shudder here – "believe me, they are more than capable of dispatching a load of peasants with sticks."

Japan was paling, and a different expression clouded his face, one that made Panem uncomfortable. The distortion of features looked strange on Japan. "I would advise you not to take that tone with me." He turned his back on Panem, headed towards the shadows again.

"Don't like it, Japan?" Panem raised his voice. The panic in him sizzled, as he told himself to _stop, apologise, look at his face,_ but anger pushed past all of it. How _dare_ this nation barge into his home, start telling him how to live his life in the world? Was there _no way_ that Panem could have just a glimpse of autonomy over his actions? "Well, maybe I don't like being woken up in the middle of the night threatened by a – a –" _Dammit, what was the word?_ "A sword-thing. Hey, there's something I meant to ask you."

Panem's chest was almost too tight to speak, but he managed it: "What _did_ happen between you and Wei Yao, huh? What did you do to China, Japan?"

He didn't know how it happened, it happened so quickly. One moment Japan was retreating to the darkness, the next he was by his side with his sword fully unsheathed. Panem gasped, feeling a spot of sudden pain in his side; his hand raced to a gash, small but deep and soaking his sheets with blood. Japan sheathed his sword once more. "That's one district marked out for the warmongers," he said. "Number Five, I think." He turned his back again. "Your problem has always been the same, Panem-san: you don't think before you open your mouth."

And only after he had vanished into the dark did it come to Panem. "Shit," he moaned. " _Katana._ That was the word."

LINEBREAK

The Outback was a huge, fissured place. Australia had always had a kind of fearful respect for its tilting flatness, the thick colour duality of acrid yellow-brown against cornflower blue where the horizon stretched. There were parts of it, she marvelled, that simply seemed to gasp for water like dried out mouths.

She had been walking for some time now, starting at Uluru, and heading further and further out of the beautiful greenery, feeling the grasslands peter out, watching the roads amble off into aimless trails. The Sun arched its way in a leap from behind her to burning ahead; she was forever confidently walking to a spectacular sunset each day. On her first day at the big rock it had stormed, and the cracks in it had made homes for waterfalls, the red gone to monochrome and the water like molten silver. On her journey out, the water had dried up even more than usual. Her own skin was flaking, crisping up in the glare, but she didn't mind. She moved, trance-like, without eating, drinking or speaking, overwhelmed into silence with a sense of impending doom. She felt, she was sure, some ancient and ugly thing just about to rear its head and take her from behind. A beast, she imagined, with brightly coloured and patterned scales, black eyes, and a screech that chilled her blood.

Australia was unused to the disquiet. That was for conflicted nations, like Japan, or Panem, or England. England, who'd suggested so long ago, _We should have one more game, shouldn't we? For old time's sake?_ She'd kept on putting it off, and now they'd never have another fight over who should be bowler first. It didn't matter that no one in either country played cricket anymore. _They_ remembered.

Australia felt rumbling in the ground. She dropped into a crouch, pressed her ear against the sand. The rumbling sounded like gurgling, the churning of water in a gut. Her heart beat faster, and she barely had time to pull her head away from the earth when it erupted; immense jet-streams of water bursting out into the sunlight.

Australia leapt backwards, the sound deafening. The water seemed to stretch for miles upwards. Australia had a moment to watch it climb until gravity took over, and it started to plummet downwards. The impact of water smacking dirt was enough to send her flying, drenched, to the side. _What. The actual. Fuck._ Her glasses were thrown off, but she could see the blurry shape of the strange water-tornado, towering and weeping all over the desert, dissolving the cracks in the ground until a growing pool of muddy water grew, surrounding Australia.

And though no other clear shapes were visible, Australia heard the great booming cracking sounds, as the fissures in the Outback wept and sweated and bled.

The towers of water flowed all over the desert, drowning the villages, creeping their way towards civilisation. They did not stop.

After two weeks, they had reached the cities.

LINEBREAK

The first sightings were somewhere in Sevilla, a landlocked Torro town. It had looked like a cloud, a great brown thundercloud sitting on the horizon. There was a great rumble of the earth, as the cloud drew closer, and as its nature became clear. Crimson eyes glared all over it, hooves tore up the ground as dust flew all around, and the sound of grunts, snorts and thundering rage became more and more deafening.

The villages did not stand a chance. Leaving a trail of ruined houses and lives behind them, an immense herd of bulls stampeded across the nation, flickering in and out of sight of the inhabitants.

The next recorded sighting would be in Monaco. The next in Geneva. The bulls marched onwards, an unstoppable raging force, drawing a line of destruction across Europe.

LINEBREAK

And, dotted about in different parts of Northern Africa, there were other occurrences. No nation or inhabitant was there to see them, but they were happening all the same. First there was a quiet, drawn out groan. It echoed mournfully over the plains of crusted grass and wispy sands, with not a living soul around to answer it. Second, mud began to reach out from under the plants and dust, twisting and fastening itself, shaping into vague figures. It was still locked to the ground, and there the figures lay, corpse-like, arms by their side. They did not move as the dirt flaked, as dark flesh broke through the cracks, as fingernails of clay smoothed themselves. Only when the last clumsy details had been put in place did they open their eyes, either dark brown or piercing green. And only once their eyes were open did they flex their hands, push themselves off the ground, and start learning to walk.


	11. Worship

CHAPTER 10 – Worship

 _July, 2048_

"Bloody fuck."

"Let me guess." France did not look away from his phone. The thing was brand new; he had so many apps to install. "The King's had another affair?" He heard England's fists clench around fragile newspaper. "Or maybe…" He feigned a gasp of horror, his eyes half-lidded and idly following small circles and colours on the tiny screen. "They're bringing out Niall Horan to sing in next year's Eurovision? The horror, England. That old man with a guitar, again!"

France felt the paper hit his elbows, as it was slid across the table to him. "I'm not nearly as short-sighted as you might think I am, France." France finally set his phone down, glanced at the front page and felt as though he had swallowed a cold stone.

"Merde."

 _JORDAN INVADES ISRAEL – WORLD WAR IMMINENT_

England laughed darkly. "Thought so." France swallowed, torn between letting every implication of this sink in, and covering his ears to block out the horror. In the end, he attempted to reach a shaky middle ground.

"Jordan will never match Israel. She'll drive him out, and the extremism will get out of Western democracy, like it should be –" The self-righteousness of the sentence became known to him as he said it, and he backtracked. "They won't win. There's no guarantee."

There was a clanking sound, of dishes and pots brushing against each other, amidst the café chatter. England reached for the paper, studying it. "Says here they've already overpowered Elat. Jordan, Palestine and that thing, they're coming up from the South, planning to rally those left in the West Bank against Jerusalem… Jesus, this is a nightmare." He pounded the table. France eyed his reddening cheeks, his wispy hair, the beginnings of sweat on his neck, from the morning sun. It was dizzyingly hot for England, and barely ten o'clock. "I _fucking_ knew this would happen. Right from when that thing was born, I told you, didn't I? We're all doomed."

France was not ready to give in to despair. "We do not have to get involved. We're busy enough with Russia, aren't we? And we did all we could for Israel, really, she's brought it on herself –"

"And you think America thinks the same way, do you?"

"I." France had no answer, and he could stave off the horrifying truth no longer; he saw America sending his troops and Canada's straight to the scene, saw the droves of Muslims being packaged off to Guantanamo Bay, or the Virgin Naval Base, saw America's grim face as he explained that _well, France, sometimes exceptions have to be made, so I'm calling for a temporary lift on the chemical weapons ban…_ "What America does doesn't _have_ to involve us, England. We can sort out our own solutions."

England's glare could have cut glass. "Oh, what? Shall we impose sanctions? That _always_ works, doesn't it?" France winced. "Particularly on something like _that thing._ How do you impose economic sanctions on something that doesn't even want to negotiate with the rest of the world, let alone trade with it – oh, thank you. Yes, thank you very much." Their coffees had arrived, delivered by a pretty black waiter. France made sure to smile at him, and watched him move away from their table, waited until he had disappeared.

"Other than try talking some sense into America, the only thing we can do now is quarantine the area. We can physically stop ISA from helping Jordan personally..."

England's eyebrows rose, an amusing sight at any other time but this. "Oh, so you've moved onto its preferred name? How very decent of you."

France's cheeks burned. "Forgive me, if I do not wish to call one of our own "that thing". However repulsive ISA may be, it is a nation nonetheless." A child, too, barely thirty years old, its face and gender never revealed from behind a black face-mask. Only those eyes were visible, dark and burning with hatred. The image of them sent a phantom ache into his heart, and chills into his soul.

England's face twisted in something deeper and more painful than disgust. "It _shouldn't_ be. That's not how nations are made."

This snapped France's panicked thoughts into sharp focus. A dry smile worked its way to his lips.

"How nations are _made?_ What do you mean, England?" France left a pause, to allow England to think he was supposed to respond. When he saw him opening his mouth to form an answer, he cut in brutally. "That nations are _not_ born out of violence? That hatred and war – these are somehow _not_ the things that shape all of us?" France shook his head. "We are friends now, my dear Angleterre _,_ but our first memories of each other are those of war, and you know it."

"It's _not the bloody same._ You _bastard,_ for comparing us to that. That thi– _ISA –_ is not like us. It hasn't centuries to develop a culture, a particular food style or, or any kind of art, or a sense of pride in anything other than massacre."

"But it _has_ developed a rather affecting attitude to religion, no?"

"That isn't funny."

"No. And we are missing the point." France folded the newspaper, pushing it to the side of the table, as he reached for his coffee. "We must do what we can, now, facing the fact that ISA _is_ a nation, whether we like it or not." A memory occurred to him. "Ha!"

England brought his cup to his lips, took a long gulp. "What's funny now?"

"I just thought, all this… Remember the crusades, England?"

England groaned, and fraction of the dark cloud above their heads dissipated. "Dear God, do _not_ bring that up… I don't like remembering our Religious Fanatic phase."

France found himself smiling naturally. "They _were_ rather petty, weren't they?"

"Shut up, you were there too."

"Petty religion wars…"

 _September, 2248_

It wasn't just cruel to France, what England had done. It was cruel to England.

The bullet had killed him instantly, wrenched his spirit off the earth in a painless flash, but how did that translate on his land? After the initial blasts had died away, life seemed to continue as it had done previously. The trees kept on changing their colours, the rain in the Lake District remained ceaseless, the London skyline still stood, if it was fairly altered. The people lived on. France watched the country from inside his new hovercraft. He noticed as flashes of city broke through the cloud-cover, like weak pulses of life from a brain-dead body.

In killing himself, England had given himself a quick death, and condemned his country to a terminally slow one. His people would do the same things they had always done, go to work at nine, drink at bars that began with the word "The", make vaguely controversial comments about the state of their bloody country, the state of the whole bloody world. But they would do these things with less conviction each day, with an increasing sense of something missing. Traditions and cultural idioms which had been engrained for millennia would start to fade, the birth rates would fall, and contact with the rest of the world would disappear. Over the years, more and more people would forget, until eventually no one would remember that England ever existed in the first place.

"Except me, cher," France murmured. "And perhaps Panem, too. You never forgot _him._ "

A cruel death, either way. The hovercraft landed in London, and France found himself inside the old city, taking in the crumbling buildings side by side with pristine, shimmering ones. Big Ben had been bombed down some time ago, and England had felt too torn up to build it up again, but the London Eye still stood erect, even if it didn't turn anymore. France had told Panem to meet him in front of it.

"It doesn't _always_ work," France said, deciding he was speaking to the Ferris wheel itself. "Germany tried to take his life in 1923. Failed. America found him on his doorstep a month later…" The effect was already taking place. It was Sunday, he was in the centre of town, and yet there were no crowds, just a few people scattered across the streets. If England were here, there would be thousands. France's heart sank. He hadn't been willing to accept it, no matter how much he'd cried, how much he'd pondered over the _cruelty_ of England's suicide. There was a part of him hoping, still. "What happened, huh?" He breathed in deeply, through his nose, and the air whistled. "In spite of everything, no matter what happens, we get through it OK. That's what we've _always_ done, no matter how bad it gets! And – and you've always been the more stable, of the two of us. If either of us was going to give up, that was always me, you weren't supposed to leave _first,_ nom de Dieu!"

His fingers ran through his hair, pulling it back from his face. The wind was dry, and stung his skin. "You don't give up, you, you _cheese-eating fucking surrender monkey!_ " The bizarre insult rushed out his mouth in a surge of hysteria, coming out of a tangle of rage, grief and irony. Another beautiful thing that only England and France had truly understood: what's the point of agony if you can't be a little tongue-in-cheek about it?

"Wow. _That_ brings up memories."

France swivelled around, his heart thumping. Panem stood, a look of vague amusement on his face. France breathed out, a well-practised grin crawling to his face. "He called me that so many times, in his life. Seems fair to return the courtesy, non?"

Panem raised an eyebrow. "So, you're over it, huh? Didn't take you long." Panem, who had ignored England for half a century. The bitterness in his tone did not make France any more eager to share his true feelings.

"Ah, _Pain,_ I do not live for the past. Surely, you remember that! Also, an occasional joke between friends does no one any harm."

Panem huffed. "Sure. Look, let's just find the plans, and get out of here, OK?"

"Fine." France gestured to a tall building with flags in front of it, a few metres behind him. "We can talk to the ambassador for France in there. They may give us copies of the plans, they'll definitely have them saved somewhere. We may take them, and remove all other copies."

"Wait. Why would the ambassador tell _us_ where the weapon is? I mean, I haven't been here in a century, and you were only fighting a war with England a few weeks ago."

France smiled again, but this time did not bother giving it any mirth. "This won't be any normal negotiation. Without England's presence, the officials don't have the means to resist those of our kind." He began to head to the embassy. "I shouldn't be surprised if they let any nation who had their eyes on the weapon just waltz in and take it."

"Hm?" The ambassador did not seem to understand the question. France could feel Panem's annoyance; instinctively he tensed his body. The ambassador sat with her hands neatly crossed on her table. It had several papers on it, but France doubted she had looked at a single one, doubted she even knew what they were there for.

"We said. Where is _Glucose Volantis?_ "

The woman's eyes had a dreary, unfocused shine to them. "I'm sorry, sirs, but I do not know of any _Glucose…_ "

"The _weapon!_ The weapon, dammit! You know, the one that destroyed half of your infrastructure? The one you used to _kill the Muscovites?"_

France pitied the poor thing, forced to face Panem's fury in this way. "I don't…" she shakily stood up from her desk. "I haven't killed anyone…" She said it like a question. France decided to step in. This could go on no longer.

"Madame," he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Forgive my partner. He is being extremely rude. We are inquiring after a particular invention of this country; I believe it was used in the last war you fought. You remember the war, don't you?" He gave an encouraging smile. It seemed to prompt a sliver of understanding in her eyes. "It was a weapon of mass destruction, which cannot be left unchecked. You understand?"

The eyes gained an edge. "Wait… Who did you say you were, again? Your accent is foreign, but…"

"We've met, Madame. I am France. Your neighbour, so to speak."

"But… but France is a _country…"_ The poor, poor woman. France had not anticipated such a level of regression.

"It does not matter. We _need_ to locate the weapon's blueprints. Can you help us? You want to help, don't you?" _You do, silly human, you do._ France was sure that his smile was disarming.

The ambassador blinked once. Her face softened, and her cheeks dimpled as she smiled back. "Of course, sirs. The blueprints. I'll send a message to the armoury right now." Her fingers worked on a small, sleek notebook, swiping letters on a near-intangible screen.

France thought he heard Panem mutter, "Wow. Old-fashioned."

"My." The ambassador's eyebrows crinkled, and there it was again, that misty, lost look in the eyes. "The files seemed to have vanished. All deleted…" France watched her close her eyes, pinch the bridge of her nose, and, when she looked back up at him and Panem, he watched all recognition drain out of her face. "May I help you with something?"

Before Panem could say anything, France took his arm and turned his back on the ambassador, schooling his expression to neutrality. "No, Madame. Thank you for your trouble."

Panem at least had the grace to wait until he and France were out of the building to voice his disapproval. "What the _fuck_ was that?"

"That," France sighed, "Was what happens when a nation dies. In such a way that England did, anyway." He said it as if the occurrence was somehow common, when in reality England was the first to destroy himself like that in millennia. Ever the trendsetter. "We were too late, after all. Someone got to the weapon first."

"Any idea who?"

France licked his lips, chapped from the wind. "Yes. Several." The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He stopped walking away from the embassy and held his breath.

"France?" To his right there was Panem, but in his peripheral vision France could sense other figures to his left. He felt a familiar heavy aura about them, the kind that did not hang on mortals, that only came with thousands of years aging. Slowly, he turned away from Panem to face them, and everything fell into place.

Two nations, one short and one tall, and one human, about the size of the two of them put together. How could France not have anticipated this?

"Well, well. What a sight."

Panem nudged France, hissing, "What accent is that? Should I know who this guy is?"

"No," France said, crossing his arms in front of him, assuming a defensive stance. "This is Schilacci, Panem. Italy's dictator."

Schilacci waggled a chubby finger. " _Emperor,_ if you please."

Panem groaned. "I can- _not_ believe you Europeans are still forming empires. I mean, Christ, didn't you guys grow out of that in the 20th century?"

Something in Panem's words made France frown. He could not put his finger on it. Next to Schilacci stood Italy, gazing listlessly, and Edelheim – standing, as usual with his eyes lowered. France looked from him to Schilacci, trying to figure out what the postures reminded him of, until the image hit him. His mouth curled in a sneer. "Why, Edelheim. I wasn't aware you were Italy's pet."

Edelheim lifted his head. "Germania is my name."

Schilacci gave a genial smile. "That it is. So, you are Panem?" He gave a courteous dip of the head. "I am honoured. You know, I admire your achievements greatly. Shame you had to ruin them with that rebellion, true shame."

The expression on Panem's face drew an involuntary shudder out of France. He had been blind to ignore this, to assume that Panem was a completely changed nation, that he was really America again. That look… France had only seen that look after America's rebirth as a collection of districts around a Capitol, never before. It wasn't simply fury. There was bitterness to it, and a deep self-loathing, which only made it more dangerous. As Panem had proved several times, at the expense of France and England, self-loathing preceded a desire for destruction, which was taken out on everyone else.

Now that the same look was back, France wondered if he had been too trusting of Panem in his reformed state. His hand went into his back pocket, curling around a dirk. He swiftly changed the subject. He turned to Italy. "What are you here for, Italy, bringing your boss with you like this? Have you come to gloat?"

"Gloat?" Italy said, "What would I be here to gloat for?"

"To tell you the truth, we were looking for a weapon," Schilacci cut in. France narrowed his eyes. "But it looks like you got here first, hm?"

"What are you talking about?" France hissed. "You _got_ the weapon." A beat. "Didn't you?"

Edel- Germania shook his head. "We just got here."

"But they… The ambassador said it's gone." Panem drew back, leaning closer to France. "You're lying. Trying to throw us off."

"We absolutely are not." France studied Schilacci's face, searching for any sign of treachery. It was a difficult task: Schilacci _always_ looked treacherous. It would be easier to look for any unusual signs of honesty. Schilacci gestured around him. "Do we seem to have the weapon with us?" He gave a smile full of nothing but contempt. "If we _did_ , why would we tempt fate by coming here to tell _you_ about it?"

Italy wound a stray lock of hair around his finger, stopping it from catching the wind. "It seems we're in exactly the same position, France."

France could not say whose face was harder to look at, Germania's submission or Italy's indifference. The bitter English wind was becoming too difficult to bear. A wave of grief was rising, unbidden from within him. France was afraid it would make itself known, unless he moved very quickly. He swallowed. "Let's go, Panem. We are done here."

Panem's hovercraft was parked next to France's, and France was pleasantly surprised to see that they were both of equal size and quality. Panem's gift had been an honest gesture, with no hint of a slight. He gave a nod of goodbye to Panem, and was about to turn away when an unsettling thought occurred to him.

"Hey, Panem… Did you take His name? Earlier?"

"Did I take whose name?"

"When you were talking about empires. You said…"

 _Christ, France, you're insufferable!_

 _In the name of Christ, France, what are you_ doing?

 _For the love of bloody Christ, France, pull yourself together._

"What did I say, France?"

"Nothing." _I imagined it,_ France reasoned. _I must have._ Because if there was one thing that could make that bitter, relentless look in Panem's eyes more terrifying, it was fear of God. "Goodbye, Panem. Have a safe journey home." France looked up at the sky, and was taken aback. The cloud cover had dissolved; the wind had blown it away, and what was left was an elegant, if modest, blue sky.

From within the hovercraft, as he rose further and further into the sky, France found himself able to watch the island through the clear air, as it shrank by degrees. His eyes did not leave it until the clouds shrouded it once more.


	12. We Need to Talk about Japan

CHAPTER 11 – We Need to Talk About Japan

"I think Japan has it." Panem leant back with arms folded, getting a better view of the screen hanging in the air in front of him. France's face sat in the centre, with some elegant interior design behind him. "He… _Visited_ me. About two weeks ago, in my house." He put a strained tone on the word _visited._ He had the story in his head, ready to surprise France.

"Did he break into your house in the middle of the night and threaten you with a katana?" There was no concern on France's face, none whatsoever. Panem was a little disappointed, and then disturbed.

"Just how often does he do that?"

France picked up a see-through cup of coffee, and began to drink it in loud, irritating gulps. "Oh, not too often. He did it to England, I think, during the Muscovites' attack, and to me in the last Depression –"

"Wait." Panem brought up another screen next to him and began typing into the air. "Muscovites' attack. That was the second last war that involved a lot of you. Right?" The war that had ended in the Muscovites dead, and England past the point of no return. _Unless you had been there to save him,_ an accusing voice whispered. France did not seem to hear it.

Panem's eyes were on his virtual notepad; he was having a conversation with France, and he was also listening out for news on the warmongers from his broadcasts. It had been some time since he had had to multitask in this way, and he was out of practice, but he fancied that he was doing a good job. The notepad was helping him keep up with all the world history he'd missed. He heard France sigh. "Yes. You don't miss a trick, do you? The Depression was back in 2204. It wasn't very important."

" _Everything's_ important, France."

"Not everything. What's important _now_ is getting the blueprints off whoever has them, before the weapon can be developed again."

"Right." Panem discarded the second screen. "Japan. He warned me about working with you, called you a bad influence."

"I can't argue with that."

"Then he said something about his own plans, something to do with… Ichi-wan? Ichi…"

" _Ichi-ban,_ perhaps?" Those words sounded right to Panem. They triggered something inside him, an old discarded memory.

" _Ichi-ban._ Number one." He shuddered. " _Glucose Volanticus_ could make any nation _ichi-ban._ " His memories of Japan grew ever sharper, and as the details returned to him, so did awful, grisly truths. There was Wei Yao, yes, but there was also Korea.

"Leave it to me," Japan said, half-way through the Religion Wars, when North Korea finally burst out of recluse with a nuclear arsenal at his disposal. There were no Western troops to send over. "Keep fighting the big enemy. I'll help South Korea." Maybe under different circumstances, they would have thought over the situation more carefully, drafted a resolution demanding that Japan _wait_ before getting involved without the West behind him. But ISA was occupying the whole Persian Gulf, Russia's fanatics were gaining more power every day, so what's a nation to do?

No one had even noticed what had happened until the next world meeting, when South Korea's seat was mysteriously empty, and Japan explained with a face devoid of remorse, that West Japan would be unable to attend for "domestic reasons".

"If Japan has it, then we only have one option," France's voice came metallically through the air-screens. "Duck out."

"What?"

"You heard me. Japan's lethal enough, _without_ a weapon of mass destruction by his side."

Panem thought he heard a warning _beep_ from one of his monitors, the ones that kept track of warmongers. He ignored it, however. "Isn't that all the more reason to try and stop him?"

France laughed. "You haven't lost that hero-complex."

Panem's cheeks went hot. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the world is not going to implode if you stay out of a situation for once." France furrowed his eyebrows. "I'm… Sorry. That came out a little harsh."

There was another insistent _beep._ "No, it's fine. You're right. We don't mess with Japan if we can help it." He looked down at some papers in front of him, and started shuffling them, hoping to hide his blush and the sudden shortness of his breath.

"No." France's mannerisms, it seemed to Panem, had changed since before his isolation. He seemed more restrained now, more straight-backed, more… Well, _English,_ he couldn't help thinking, as he looked back up at his first – _only_ national ally. "But that doesn't mean we can't do our bit elsewhere in the world. There are plenty of nations you have yet to reunite with, aren't there?"

"Are you gonna send me on some errands, or something?" He pulled a face. "Please not Europe."

"Not Europe," France agreed, "Or any of the East-Asians. Worse than them."

Panem took a moment to remember any nation with whom a meeting would be worse than one with Italy or Japan. He did not have to think long. "Oh, _please._ Not him."

"You'd have to do it sooner or later."

"He _hates_ me."

"Trust me, he hates everyone."

"What would I even _say_ to him?"

"I don't know." France's image shuddered at a fault in the connection; his head seemed, for a moment, disconnected from his shoulders as he suggested, "Give him a present. A casket of oil, perhaps."

In Europe, you'll find that the countryside is, generally speaking, safer than the city. It is also usually duller but less exhausting, less dynamic but prettier, and overall a simpler experience. Poland was no exception to this rule.

Most who lived in the Polish country had never known city-life, so had no comparison. Of these people, however, fair amounts were conscious enough of the world beyond their immediate surroundings, to be able to tell that their lives were led by mundane routine.

Natia, two weeks away from her eleventh birthday, was just coming to this realisation. It had not expressed itself in words yet, but the idea was forming in her subconscious: the idea that her life was lacking something. She was old enough – had been old enough for some time – to milk the cows. They were reared some fields away from her home, and required a journey of two or three miles, a journey laden with heavy wood-and-metal water buckets, heavier still with milk on the return. As she walked, Natia tried to quell the strange negativity in her mind with thoughts of how grown-up she had become, that the journey no longer sent spasms of fatigue down her limbs. She would have distracted herself by admiring the scenery, but the truth was that none of it was interesting. Horizontal planes swam around her, punctuated with the occasional burst of shrubbery. The buckets creaked as she swung her arms.

Once she had reached the cow field, she stood by the gate for some time, static and weighted by her buckets. She was staring at a tree, on which a single woollen glove clung to some twigs. On one of the branches there was a crow, picking moss with his jet beak, and holding it there – pieces of the stuff lodged in, his beak forming some cattle-cart-like storage space – the thoughts that plagued Natia were rising again. Her eyes focussed and defocussed on the wind-tossed glove, her peripheral vision took note of the crow's jerky movements along the branch, and slowly she puttered over her thoughts.

She did not notice a man coming up behind her, until she felt his hand in her hair. She screamed, obediently, although she was not scared. She was still lost in thought.

"Oh, sorry!" The man had a high, lilting voice. "I didn't see you there. You're tiny."

Natia craned her neck back, squinted at the sun's glare to see a young man with blond hair and a half-smile. "That's alright. I'm here to milk the cows."

"Sure." The man's eyes fell on her buckets. "Those look heavy. You want some help?"

"No, thank you. I'm grown-up enough to do it myself." Natia thought this might be enough to drive the man away, but he came up beside her, and sat down on a log, so his head was level with hers. She looked away from him and into the field, planning on finding a cow and starting her work, but finding herself rooted to the spot.

"So, you live here?" He sniffed. "Looks a little boring. What do you do for fun?"

"I." Natia racked her brains; she _knew_ there was an answer, she was just finding it difficult to envision her day. She would get up, she would tend to the chickens, eat breakfast, do other farm duties and then… "I talk with my mother."

" _Whaaat?_ That's so adorable!" Natia giggled. She remembered, with sudden terror, that this man was a _stranger_ and she should be running away as fast as possible. But it was impossible. She _had_ to know more about this fair-haired man, his strange, laid-back voice. He was the first interesting thing she had seen in months.

"What do you do in _your_ spare time?" She asked, "Don't you live around here too?"

"Nope. Just passing through."

He pushed his large hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, and Natia was reminded of her older brother. The pout of his bottom lip, the slitted eyes, the restless quivering of the knee – again, those thoughts of dissatisfaction crept up on Natia.

"So," the man said, "You like to talk to your mom. What about your pa?"

"Father? Oh, he died."

The man's leg stopped jittering. "Did he die… here?"

Natia shook her head. "In Africa." _How did you know,_ she wanted to ask.

"I was there too," he said. They were quiet for some time, until he stood up, hands still hidden. "What's your name, little girl?"

Natia's tongue moved of its own accord. She told him her name.

"Natia." Somehow it sounded more correct in his mouth than in hers. "Listen, Natia. Have you ever seen someone die?"

Natia's blood ran cold. The man was a lot taller than her. She had no defences whatsoever, and even if she had been older, this man said he'd been a soldier. There was no way she could fight him off. She was stupid, just like her brother said, young and stupid… "No," she got out, before finding herself unable to stop, "Oh, please don't kill me, Mister!"

" _Huh?_ What gave you that idea?" Natia closed her eyes, assuming the stranger would grab her and take her in any minute. "You made me lose my train of thought. Sheesh." She opened her eyes again.

"Mister…?"

"Anyway, where was I? Right. _I've_ seen people die, Natia. I saw them die in Africa, and here, and also in the wide spaces."

"To the East?"

"Yeah, to the East. They were killed by a particular weapon." He paused here for a moment, presumably to add drama. "Did you know that you could kill an entire nation, with a few missiles? Because I sure didn't, until I saw it happening right in front of me."

Natia was fairly sure at this point, that if the man had any intention of stealing her away, he would have followed it through by now. Still, the deviation from their previous lighter topics disturbed her. "You're scaring me," she felt comfortable saying.

"It's a scary world, little girl." Was it? Was a world inhabited only by a few cows and sheep _scary?_ "But I hope I've managed to make it a little less scary. Kids like you deserve as much." His hand came out of his pocket, holding a roll of paper. It looked satisfyingly thick and sturdy; it was held tight with a twist of wire. Through the spiralling furls, Natia could see that it was blue on one side. "You know what these are?"

The word that came to Natia's mind was not her own, but her brother's, who was working in a city factory, free from the safety of the countryside. "Blueprints!"

"You're smart! They're blueprints, exactly." He fiddled gingerly with the wire. "But not just any blueprints, Natia. These are the most dangerous plans in the world."

He laid them on the grass, where the white of them stood out starkly, a stab of the city hanging awkwardly away from it. "No one will ever know I had these," he murmured. "And that's the way it should be. I'm removing the last trace of this evil from the world…" His hand disappeared into his pocket again, and came out holding a small plastic box, the height of a teaspoon. He pressed a button on its side, and a delicate flame jumped out, fluttering restlessly but obediently on the tip. He lowered himself down to his knees and moved the flame to the edge of the curled-up paper.

Partly because of the sturdiness of the paper, the blueprints took some time to catch. But they did, and the flame encircled a small spot of growing black in their centre. The grass beneath them caught fire too, and began to give off a surprisingly thick smoke, curling fists of wispy fingers in the air. The man remained stooped over them, his head bent down, and tendrils of his shoulder-length hair hanging over the flames. "I don't want anyone else to die," was all he said, before heaving himself up and walking away into the morning mist.

Natia watched the most dangerous pieces of paper in the world burn to cinders until her eyes watered from the fumes. The tinge of the city excited her and terrified her at the same time; she needed, she realised to discover every horror of the scary world she lived in, before it was too late to try.


End file.
